Atonement
by VitaSeptima
Summary: Second chances are rare. The first time around, Harry ignored all his rules and let Ruth Evershed into his life, only to lose her to outside forces. When she returns, Harry vows that things will be different but only if can learn from the past.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N - Hello lovely people still left out there. This is somewhat of a companion piece to Devotion, but you don't necessarily need to have read it to understand this story. _

Chapter 1 - The Semblance of a Normal Life

In the darkness, time had no meaning. Past, present, future, each sat beside him, fellow prisoners in the airless cell. Silent, offering up no words in his defence. The walls taunted him, whispering words of judgment, retribution, fear. In the ragged space, unstructured by hours, he had come to the conclusion that time was not a linear progression of days and hours but a succession of events folding in upon one another, circles widening and decreasing, experiences repeated until the lesson was learned, or fate, in an act of sublime abdication, abandoned the traveller and left him none the wiser. It was with a heavy heart that he concluded he now numbered among those abandoned.

He was no stranger to confinement, he had known different cells of varying strength and dimensions, but this one was different, it held the aura of the finite. There would be no more cells after this one, no more life as he knew it, no more her. In a previous circle of time, his actions had landed him in a cell, honour rising as he prepared to sacrifice his freedom so that she could live. This time there had been no honour, no sacrifice, only overpowering hubris.

As he lay on the cot, he folded his arms across his chest, contemplating his various misdeeds and wondering what circles of hell lay before him. Try as he might, their names remained elusive. What good was a classical education if not for this very sort of trivia. She would know - she knew everything. He clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth searching his mind for the specific purgatories described by the Italian poet. There was a circle for those guilty of lust. It was a given that he would do penance in that one. Without warning, the weight of memory squeezed the breath from his chest, his heart stilling at the remembrance of soft moans and supple flesh, fingers trailing over delicate skin. The unfettered bliss of complete release. A crooked smile broke across his face; oh yes, he would do penance in the circle of lust.

There was a circle for liars; he would serve at least an eternity in that one. His life was built on deception. There was not a day where he had not tangled with the truth. Deceit was the fibre of his being. He had lied to his team, to her, to himself.

Was there one for anger? If so, his bouts of temper and lack of patience would certainly land him there. He blew a huff of resignation through his lips. He took small consolation in the fact that he would not serve time in the last circle, the one reserved for politicians and lawyers. He would at least avoid that particular hell. As he tallied up his sins, he wondered what lesson there was to be learned.

The past is a foreign country.

For that matter, the future looked to be a foreign country as well.

He ran a hand over his face, hoping to dispel the image of an orange jumpsuit and the nerve bending twang of country music. He dared not think what other delights awaited him in the penal system stateside. God, help him.

The taste of metal filled his mouth and he drew in the side of his cheek. He massaged the underside of his jaw, carefully pressing his tongue against a lower molar, unable to discern if it was loose or cracked. Saliva pooled and he turned his head to spit it out on the floor, his accommodations had no doubt been subjected to worse. He was unwilling to swallow his blood or the truth. The irrefutable fact lay before him - he was responsible for the death of Jim Coaver.

What lesson had he learned?

She would tell him none, though she would not say it with words. There would only be a look, her eyes speaking volumes beneath hooded lids. She had called him a stupid man and he could not refute her words, for his actions had carried everything but wisdom. A deep sigh rose from his chest. He could not bring himself to say her name, to utter it in a room that would not recognise her worth. He had lived on the memory of her once before, he would store it up again and parse it out as a starving man staves off hunger. He took slight solace in the fact that his absence would allow her to live a normal life. She would have a house, a family again. After all, he had been the one holding her back.

Rarely did fate ever offer up a second chance. He had been given such a gift but had not used it wisely. He had squandered it, giving in to pride and impulse and rash decisions. He was a gambler by nature, who could blame him for rolling the dice and wanting more. He should have walked away from the Service years ago, he might have had a chance with her. Instead, they danced around each other, pushing, pulling, demanding. Both, at one time or the other, walking away only to return. He squeezed his eyes shut. Where had it all gone wrong? There must have been a point, one decision in a host of many that would have set everything off in a different direction.

There had never been time for reflection, but in the darkness, his thoughts floated on memory, lulling him into a semi-trance, sailing on waters almost forgotten, charting a course to that foreign land.

.

The bullets ripped through the air with an eardrum splitting crack. Silence hung in the dusty murk of the room, suspended between the sound and the realisation of its source. Two clean shots.

For a split second, Harry's eyes latched onto Mani's. Acrimony and accusation surged from the man, followed by a glaze of emptiness as his black soul drained away from his body. With an unceremonious thud, Mani's lifeless form hit the floor. The knife fell from his hand, skidding across the floor and landing at Harry's feet. Harry studied it with unseeing eyes, his mind unable to process the turn of events. Death had seemed imminent. The thud of his heart echoed in his ears, his breath rasping in his throat. A small voice broke through the deep haze of his shock.

"Oh, Harry."

The words were a plea, a regret, an accusation. Harry lifted his eyes to the woman sitting across from him. Face buried in her hands, Ruth rocked with silent grief. The synapses of Harry's brain stuttered, fighting against inertia, goading his limbs to action. Go to her. He took a deep breath, searching for the energy to stand, but before he could move, a wave of officers crashed into the room. Swooping in like carrion crows, they circled the scene, removing evidence, erasing their presence from that room. The henchman who had held Harry down was quickly restrained and roughly marshalled away. Even though his captor was removed, Harry still could not stand. The fuel of adrenaline had evaporated. Muscles, held together by the tension of the past few hours, grew slack, leaving behind shaking limbs and a line of cold sweat running down his spine. Lucas knelt before him, gun tucked back in his belt, concern on his face. The man's voice floated to Harry, muffled as though travelling through a wool blanket.

"You alright, Harry?"

Harry's mouth slackened with incredulity at the question. He had been kidnapped, shoved in the boot of a car, subjected to a mock assassination, denied food and drink, and psychologically tormented. He was far from alright. Leaving the question unanswered, Harry looked over his officer's shoulder, searching for the woman whose preservation of life had been his sole objective. Black coats blocked his view. Had she been nothing more than a mirage brought on by thirst? Harry moved his foot, his shoe hitting the knife that had been destined for her throat. Lucas retrieved it and made short work of the zip ties around Harry's hands. Free from the plastic restraints, Harry stood up, rubbing the chafed skin at his wrists.

"Water," he croaked.

Lucas motioned to an officer. Harry craned his neck, searching through the crowd. He did not wait for the water but shouldered his way through the contained chaos, one mission in mind. The chair where she had sat, stood empty and he swung his head in panic, looking about the room. The white-blonde head of Ros rose above the black coats as she approached him.

"We've got McCaul downstairs."

He didn't give a tinker's damn about that man. "Where is she?"

Ros motioned with her head toward the window. Ruth stood silhouetted against the grimy windowpane. Beside her stood a young officer, his head bowed in intent conversation.

"And the boy?" Harry asked.

"Malcolm has him."

Harry did not stop to ask how the boy had ended up with Malcolm, at that moment details were immaterial. His feet moved by their own accord, vapours of confinement trailing in his wake. He grimaced, the scent of sweat and desperation still clinging to him. Blood on his shirt, grease on his skin, the broken shards of his authority laying at his feet, she had seen him at his lowest point, powerless to do anything except play with their captor's mind. It was not supposed to happen like this. In all his dreams of her return, she had always appeared in familiar settings. The railing by the side of a river, the heat of a dimly lit corridor, or an intimate table in an elegant restaurant. But not like this. Never like this.

The young officer continued to talk to Ruth, his hand upon her arm in a coaxing manner. Ruth shook her head, not listening, eyes directed at the door, her body making ready to leave. At Harry's arrival, the young man gave a nod and removed himself from the conversation.

Throat like paper, words spent from the effort to talk down Mani, Harry looked down at the woman before him. The tracks of tears streaked her face, her hair dishevelled, the same film of confinement covering her skin. What could he possibly say to console her? He grappled with thoughts, searching for words to salvage their fractured reunion. Ruth did not acknowledge him. Eyes wild, her gaze darted back and forth.

"Nico?" Her only thoughts were of the boy. "Is he alright?"

Harry nodded, unable to offer up the particulars of the boy's condition.

"He could be alive, couldn't he?" she asked frantically. " I mean George. It's possible, isn't it?"

She was a child seeking reassurance but he could give her none. A gunshot to the head at such close range; there was no hope. The only answer he could give was a look. Nodding, she signalled her understanding. She had born witness to similar deaths, she knew there could only be one outcome.

"Oh, God, what am I going to tell Nico?" Shaking fingers raked through the unruly strands of her hair. "And George's sister. I'll have to call her. I'll have to take the body back home."

Harry's throat closed, unwilling to swallow the meaning of her words. Home? This was her home. He remained immobile, his mind screaming for him to reach out and touch her. But his arms were leaden, bound to his sides by a force far stronger than the plastic zip ties. The woman who stood before him was not his Ruth. Though she had looked at him with the same blue eyes, spoken with the same quality in her voice, a subtle shift had occurred beneath the surface. An absence of over two years, a life created on foreign soil, experiences adding pieces to her that he did not recognise. It unsettled him, this dissonance in her manner that he could not articulate. Like a peasant from a tale of old, he had asked for the return of his beloved from the dead, only to have her reappear missing a piece of her soul. The price extracted by the devil from such a bargain always outweighed any joy of the reunion.

The noise of the room grew louder, voices talking over each other. Harry closed his eyes, willing them away, unable to concentrate in the din. He would find a place where they could sit in peace. He would talk to her and they could slowly work their way through the tangled knot of their lives. He would bring her back to where she belonged. Opening his eyes, he took a step forward. She flinched, recoiling from his proximity.

"I have to go." The words were directed at his chest, her eyes unable to meet his.

Harry's shoulders sank at her rejection, and he cleared his throat.

"We'll find a safe house for you."

"Yes, well, a lot of good that did."

Her observation was bookended with a huff of derision. He could not argue with her point.

"We'll get you whatever you need."

Her mouth contorted in pain. "I need to go to him."

Resignation drew Harry's lips into a grim line. Her loyalty had found a new home, residing with another family. He could not fault her. She had not returned to him of her own volition. Instead, she had been ripped away from her life and thrown at him. Hands tied, he had been unable to catch her. She had begged him for help and he had refused.

_If you ever had any feelings for me._

Harry ran a weary hand over his brow. If he had acted on her words, given up the uranium to prove the depth of feeling he once had, still possessed for her, would they be standing in the situation they were in right now. Or would she look at him with different eyes? It was a question too late to ask.

He was not the man she had left. Cowed and powerless, far removed from the Section Head who commanded every situation. She had seen him as a husk. He needed to pull himself together. He motioned for the officer to return.

"Get Miss Evershed a car and see that she is looked after."

Did she go by Evershed now? Harry had no idea.

The young man took Ruth by the elbow; solicitous, caring, easily demonstrating what Harry could not. The pair walked to the door and left the room.

He would give her some space, allow her time to grieve. Hold a conversation under less trying circumstances. Harry squinted at the grey sky barely visible through a pane of greasy glass. What day was it? He needed a shower, food, clean clothes. He needed a plan. His gaze fell to the street below. Black cars abandoned in haste by his officers sat parked at haphazard angles. Two dark forms approached a car, the officer and Ruth. Shoulders hunched, she looked about, lost. The young officer ushered Ruth into the back seat of the vehicle and then joined her. The car slowly manoeuvred its way through the melee of vehicles, pulling out of the courtyard and away from him. Harry leaned against the window, overcome by the sensation of an opportunity lost, perhaps never to be regained. She should be in his car. He should be the one to take her home.

A presence stirred at his elbow. Ros handed him a bottle of water, a casual eye following the direction of his gaze out the window. He twisted off the cap and greedily gulped down the liquid, the refreshment serving to revive him. Arms crossed, Ros gave him a moment to collect himself as she waited for his assessment of the situation. He wiped a dribble of water from his chin.

"We stopped them from getting the uranium," he observed. "A success in that regard."

"And a failure in others."

Harry narrowed his eyes at Ros, smarting at he pointed observation. As always, her comment was the counterbalance to his, underlying the nature of their work. Over the years, Ros had managed to slide into one of the niches that Ruth had left vacant, the sounding board to his errant thoughts. Harry took another swig and studied Ros. How much did she know about him and Ruth? She had not been at the Section long before Ruth's departure. There was no one on the current team who knew of Ruth's value to him. Except for Malcolm.

"I need to shower and change. We'll convene back at the Grid."

Ros dropped her eyes to the blood on his shirt."Shouldn't you see a doctor?"

He shook his head. "I've been away for days. I need to get back up to speed."

He could not reveal to Ros his desperate need to return to the Grid and reclaim the parts of him that had been lost in that room. He would find himself first and then seek out Ruth.

.

A large drop spattered on his windshield, followed by two more, teasing with the prospect of a greater shower. The resulting mist blurred the world outside his car. Harry sat in the vehicle, unaware of the rain. He concentrated on the address written on a slip of paper in his hand. He squinted through the passenger side window. A light shone from a first-floor window. Was she there, crying, cursing, railing against him. Or more dishearteningly, did she give him no thought at all, dismissing him as a shadow of his former self.

Washed and shaved, wearing a freshly pressed suit, he wanted to show her that once again he was a man of authority, though try as he might, he could not shake the lingering scent of defeat. He had scrubbed off the blood of Victor Sarcasin, and the grip of Mani's henchmen, whittling down layers of skin. He had even resorted to wearing cologne, a habit he usually despised. It was only for that reason, he told himself, that he had ferreted out an ancient bottle of the stuff. He had received it as a gift from Catherine for at long-forgotten Birthday. It was by no means to impress the woman housed in the unknown flat. He flicked the piece of paper with his thumb., marshalling his resolve.

The patter of the rain picked up, the sky opening up with a decisive downpour. It tapped against the windshield, urging him to make a decision. Enough; inaction had cost him before. He released the latch on his seat belt and placed his hand on the door handle, ready to brave the elements. His fingers paused on the metal. An overlooked detail arose. She would be in there with the boy. Harry closed his eyes, seeing the small figure on a video screen playing soccer, unaware of the tragedy that unfolded around him. It had fallen to Ruth to break the news. Alone, she would bear the brunt of the boy's grief and anger. It would take far more courage than Harry possessed to look that child in the eye. The responsibility for the father's death lay squarely at his feet.

They would not welcome him. He had no reason to expect anything from her.

Captivity erases barriers. Alone with her in that room, Harry had forsaken the guardrails of propriety, digging into her life. It was out of pride and possessiveness that he had asked the question. His ego battered, he had been desperate to hear that she did not love that other man. Her response had been neither an affirmation nor denial, and he was left none the wiser. It would come as no surprise to hear that she loved the man and had no feelings for Harry. She had already characterised Harry in that room.

_Heartless bastard._

She had called him a bastard once before when he had manipulated her, all in the name of a training exercise. If only he had known the value of those hours. He would give a king's ransom to turn back the clock and revisit those days of barely suppressed desire and unspoken want. Give up even more to erase the events of the past day.

He should leave her be and let her return with the boy to reclaim her life in the sun. His fist fell on the steering wheel. Impossible situation. He had found and lost her in a day. Stubborn conceit swirled within his belly, he hated conceding defeat. She had forgiven him before, could she again? It was as he had told the team; in time she would realise what they had done for her. Besides, they shared a past. There had once been something between them, something wonderful. But was that enough if it had never been said?

He made a bargain with time; he would let events unfold of their own accord. In the past, his efforts at manipulation, especially where Ruth was concerned, had not always worked in his favour. He had learned his lesson.

Harry drew the seat belt back down and snapped it into place. The engine stuttered as he turned the ignition. The light from the first-floor window went dark. It had been hers, he was certain. Had she been watching him watching her? No, there was no way she could know that he was outside. He shifted the car into drive and pulled away from the kerb.

He would not dwell on the fact that time had not always been on his side.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N - Thank you so much for your kind reviews. I'll try and write faster!_

.

Chapter 2 - The Hidden Price for Our Salvation

The bridge spanned a millennium, or at least one could draw that conclusion by inference of its name. The achievement was less stellar when it was revealed that the years of one century abutted against the years of another. As he stood on the embankment, Harry studied the distant architectural wonder, struts rising like slingshots from the water, the site of another reunion gone wrong.

Against his better instincts, he had let a number of days pass before his initial phone call to Ruth. Time had flown for him while it had no doubt crawled for her. He had fallen into vacillation, talking himself in and out of calling her, lifting the receiver, only to drop it back into its cradle. Finally, disgusted by his cowardice, he had contacted her. He had thought his choice of meeting place quite clever. It was the perfect spot, free from the entrapments of intimacy or association, a meeting on neutral territory. The metaphorical significance of a bridge crossing the river pleased his Oxfordian sensibilities. He had roundly convinced himself that at such a place they would find common ground once again. Build a golden bridge for your enemy. Not that Ruth was his enemy, but he was certainly aware of the amount of work that would have to be undertaken towards reconciliation. He should know by now that the gods laugh at the plans of man. The meeting had gone spectacularly awry. He should have considered the history of the bridge's construction. The structure had been unveiled with great fanfare, only to open and close on the same day. The unanticipated laws of physics had caused the deck to sway with the steps of the masses creating consternation and alarm in all those who walked across it. Synchronous lateral excitation the engineers had proclaimed; the effect of a crowd falling into step with one another, the movement of the bodies causing the bridge to oscillate. It had taken years to recalibrate the structure so that it remained firm beneath the strides of a crowd. Bridges were not built in a day. Even years of planning could not anticipate the real-world logistics, sometimes things needed to be taken back to the drawing board. It had become apparent that one bridge was not enough to span the gulf between them. His offer to help her had been met with a derisive huff and before he could amend his words, she had walked away. He still wasn't entirely sure of the nature of his transgression. He had wanted to make things better, was that so wrong? He hated the thought of retreat but she had left him no choice. Anger had propelled him in the opposite direction. Stubborn woman. He was forced to admit that even though he had thought himself removed and contained, he had brought a sense of expectation to the meeting. The unfounded belief that she would still need him. She had demonstrated otherwise. He would never be able to fathom her thoughts. Her disposition had turned with the wind.

He could not mask his surprise when he had picked up the phone that morning and heard her voice on the other end. The simple request for another meeting, this time at the spot that she specified. He cautiously agreed, approaching the encounter with a healthy dose of trepidation and apprehension. Years of experience had taught him that when a person had nothing left to lose, their actions could not be anticipated. And Ruth had lost everything. Twice.

He found himself positioned beside her, his hands on the railing, a guard against souls falling into the river. No bridge for Ruth, she had chosen the more sensible shelter of the shore. She stood next to him, close enough to touch, but a continent away in her mind; a woman removed from her life, removed from him. Her proximity stirred an echo in his chest, distant, faint, gone before he could define the feeling. He let the silence stretch out between them, uncertain of her underlying motives. Moments before, she had greeted him with an apology, and though he had no idea what had caused her change of heart, he had followed with his offer of remorse. He was not naive enough to expect that the few words of contrition that had passed between them would be enough to salve the gaping wound that separated them. She had apologised for blaming him and he had offered his own words of reconciliation. A wound hastily plastered without attending to the deeper cut. It was enough to allow a conversation before the pain returned.

Harry shifted his weight, bringing his body closer to hers, the move intended as a subtle signal for her to speak, he was in the middle of dealing with an energy crisis after all, but could not find the courage to look at her directly. Instead, he glanced over her shoulder. The curving arches of Victorian engineering dipped in and out of the river, the staid stonework contrasting with the aesthetic of its modern neighbour. Bridges from two different eras crossing the same water but destined never to meet. He wondered if that had informed Ruth's choice of location, knowing that the past and present could never be reconciled. Behind them, patrons strolled in and out of a pub. Harry gave the establishment a sideways look of longing, a pint would go a good way in fortifying his courage. Rays of a rare sun sparkled on the surface of the water, temporarily hiding the brown silt that lay beneath. Currents pulled at him, the desire to stay with this woman duelling with his duty of overseeing an active operation. As much as he wanted to, he did not have time to admire the view. As the minutes ticked on, Harry fought to quell his impatience. Matters of state tugged him in another direction. The nation was wrestling with an oil shortage, talks with the delegation from Tasbekstan grinding to a halt, he was needed back at the Grid. Like the river, he schooled his surface to remain placid hiding the silt beneath. It was imperative that he give the woman beside him as much time as she needed. Caution guided him, the sting of their previous encounter still seared into his mind. Her head dipped low, a sign that she was marshalling her thoughts. Certain pieces of her had changed but that particular body language had not. Harry took small solace in the fact that some of her mannerisms remained.

"Funny, how they say when you can't change the past its like water under a bridge," she mused. "It's not as if the water ever stops. There's always another wave coming behind it."

Harry's hands flexed on the railing. Her words underscored the fragile nature of their truce. The forgiveness for one sin did not necessarily mean absolution for them all. Indeed, he had not been forgiven for his most grievous crime. He would have let the boy die. It was a weight that he would have to bear. He cleared his throat, dispelling his heavy thoughts.

"I didn't realise we came here to talk about the varying currents of the Thames." He kept his tone light, though it held an element of prodding.

Arms leaning on the railing, Ruth absently picked at the cuff of her trench coat, signalling that she would not be rushed by his agenda. Harry regarded her coat in silent judgment. It was a shapeless grey garment that did nothing to outline the figure beneath it. When she had first come to him, her coats had been varying shades of white, the fabric as untarnished as the woman. The day she left him, she had graduated to black, the badge of a seasoned spook, earned after years of trial and tribulation. For some reason, the grey coat irked him. It signified a lack of choice; telegraphing that she was content to remain in a state of limbo. In the back of his mind, the place where hope and optimism lay barely breathing, he harboured the notion that he could convince her to return to the Grid, that her intelligence gathering skills would be like riding a bike, once learned never forgotten. Experience and the more jaded aspect of his nature told him the climate was not right for such negotiations and that whatever patience he called upon now he would need tenfold to reach that objective. Ruth abandoned the distraction of her sleeve, and Harry focused his attention on her.

"Do you remember Louis Khurvin?" she asked.

Harry turned the name over in his mind but it held no recognition. He frowned as he rifled through numerous operations stored in his memory, searching for a clue. Seeing his lack of comprehension, Ruth offered a few more hints.

"UK citizen, suspected of terrorism. The Americans wanted to extradite him. You wouldn't let them."

"Ah, yes," Harry said, the memory of the events returning. "I recall the fall out from that decision was my suspension."

He eyed her, curious as to the direction of their conversation. His mind skipped back over the stepping stones of time, landing for a brief moment on the smell of damp wool and the humid interior of a bus. The memory blossomed, unbidden, having been suppressed for so long. The electric charge of fingers touching, the scent of her hair, a flash drive and a flash of intimacy. He quickly stamped out the thought. Now was not the time.

"Would you make the same call today?" she asked.

"I would think so," he conceded. "We can't let other countries extradite our citizens whenever the whim strikes them."

She nodded. "Do you still believe that, Harry? That we can't sacrifice our beliefs to accommodate the whims of another country?"

The muscles of his face fell; the tiny ember of hope that the conversation was of a personal nature extinguished, replaced by a wholly different realisation. This meeting was not about reconciliation, or the opportunity to rebuild their relationship. He had been set up. And he suspected the perpetrator.

"You've been talking to Jo."

"We may have run across one another."

"She shouldn't be discussing an active operation with you."

"She didn't." Ruth quickly came to the woman's defence. "She's far too professional for that."

Harry would not admit to himself that if the opportunity arose for him to talk with Ruth about an active operation he would not hesitate to do so, but that was his prerogative, he was Head of Section. In fact, if the conversation were to tilt that way it would have given him a nice entryway into coaxing her back onto the Grid.

"What did she say?"

"She seems to be under the misguided notion that I hold sway over your decision making."

Harry clenched his jaw, bristling at the idea that the young officer had gone behind his back, using his past association with Ruth as a lever to further her own designs regarding Bibi Saparova. The exiled dissident was a loose cannon whose actions threatened to undermine the talks. Jo had been warned not to give the woman any extra protection. If he could not control his team, what use was he? Jo had undermined his authority, and for some reason, it was imperative that he regain ground in that area, especially where Ruth was concerned. She had seen him at his lowest point. He wanted to erase that image from her mind. He brought himself up to his full height, ready to refute Jo's assumption. Ruth put up her hand before he could protest.

"Don't worry, I quickly set her right. I don't know how she got the idea that you would listen to me."

"I've listened to you in the past." He begrudgingly conceded, wanting to buttress up the fragile truce that spanned between them. Of course, he had listened to her. He had no idea what she was going on about. Her insight had been invaluable on a number of operations. The woman possessed years of hard-won experience. It was that intellectual capital that underpinned his reason for wanting her to return. At least, that's what he told himself.

"You may have heeded my advice..." She looked at him from beneath hooded lids. "Once or twice. Perhaps Jo witnessed one of those rare occasions."

Ignoring her slight dig at his stubbornness, he continued. "This incident is nothing like the Khurvin extradition. The person in question isn't even a British citizen."

"Neither am I, Harry," she responded flatly. "Does that make my life any less valuable to the state?"

His fingers curled around the railing, trying to maintain a grip on the wheel of the conversation. He didn't know how to talk to this woman. She had no definitive role in his life, she was neither his subordinate nor a colleague, for all he knew he had conjured her up and was talking to a ghost. She turned to look at him.

"Innocent lives don't always have to be sacrificed for an operation to be successful."

His gaze swung out over the river, unwilling to acknowledge the subtext of her comment. What was done could not be undone. He was not going to unpack the decisions of that fateful day. He was the master of containment. It was an unfortunate incident, but he could not go back and change anything. The only choice was to move forward.

"Have you given any thought as to what you might do?" He changed the topic, looking for a way to assert control over the conversation.

She followed his gaze out over the water and shrugged. "I enjoyed my job at the hospital. There was something satisfying about working at a place of healing. It was refreshing, the ability to leave and not carry anything home. There's a certain allure to a normal life."

He had said as much to her; a conversation in a corridor, she had worn a white coat, so close he could almost...

Harry inhaled a sharp breath, suppressing the memory. At this rate, he would drown under the deluge of things past. He bit back the urge to disparage her choice. He settled on a more cajoling tact.

"Would that satisfy you? Challenge you?"

"Maybe I don't want to be challenged." Her voice held an edge of defiance, reminiscent of their earlier encounter. "Maybe I just want peace."

It took all his self-control not to grab her by the shoulders and demand why she would be content to throw her talent away on being a thankless clerk. Sensing that the conversation was teetering on the edge of an argument, Harry regrouped. He would not beg for this woman to return. He knew that if he pushed her too hard she would dig in her heels. Know your opponent, know yourself. The problem was, he did not truly know her anymore. There had been a time where he could have seeded her thoughts, cultivated her actions, but now he lacked insights into what experiences had shaped her, unable to anticipate her reactions. The nuance of diplomacy was not his strong suit, he was much better at leveraging command and barking orders. He would have to find other means of persuasion. Hoping to defuse the tension, he returned to his original offering.

"I meant what I said the other day. If there is anything I can do to help you."

Brushing the hair away from her eyes, she squinted up at him. Harry held his breath, fearing that she was going to turn and walk away from him once again. She lifted her chin, offering a challenge.

"Then you'll have to resurrect me."

For the first time that day, he met her eyes, searching for the woman he once knew. They looked back at him, a piercing blue, devoid of the longing that once filled their depths. His throat tightened as the reality of the situation dawned. He may never receive that look of desire from her again. Common sense warned him to take his heart and walk away, discard any foolish romantic notions, he was made of sterner stuff. Lock away the memories and concentrate on the present. Keep any sort of relationship between them professional. He owed her that. She was not the spook that he had created, not his officer, not his analyst, but by God, he wanted to make her that again. If only he could. She was the expert at sorting out puzzles. How would he ever collect all the pieces and put her back together?

"I'll do my best."

"Thank you," she gently replied.

A lesser man might give in to the softness of her voice and forget his vow. Harry could not. He stepped back, putting a respectable amount of distance between them.

"Will you be alright getting home?"

"I don't have a home. Remember?"

Though there may not have been a battle, she had certainly landed her blows.

Bringing her back to life did not necessarily mean that she would return to him. Could he live with that? Pragmatism offered another solution. If he could not have her heart, he would have her mind. That was where her value lay. And her loyalty. He would win her back to his camp. Incrementally. Persuade her to return to the Grid, regain her confidence, and in the end, with the stamina of the hundred years war, find that piece of her that belonged only to him. He only needed a strategy.

A name came to mind. Jo. She knew of his past with Ruth. She had been present during that halcyon period before everything had fallen apart. Though she may not have known the extent of their relationship, she must have had an inkling. He vaguely remembered that Jo had been aware of Zaf and his book-running scheme, the Grid personnel wagering on when their boss and the analyst would finally get together. Harry wondered how big the pot had grown and if anyone had ever collected it. Trivial thoughts, best left to the past. The point was that if Jo had conscripted Ruth to persuade him regarding Bibi Saparova, then he had every right to use Jo to persuade Ruth. Yes, that was the route.

"I'll get things moving and then I'll be in touch."

"You've got my number, right? " Ruth asked.

He nodded.

There was no lingering farewell. She turned and melded into the foot traffic, walking away. The sun followed her, it's light uncharacteristically mellow. For the time she had stood beside him, his world had been warm.

.

Harry sat in the dimness of his office, brows knitted together as he tried to parse out the cryptic news relayed to him by the Home Secretary. Spies listening in on spies. A high-level meeting in Switzerland, division in the intelligent services. What did it all mean? As honoured as he was that Blake had come to him, saying that he was the only man he trusted, Harry was hoping for a moment of respite. The energy crisis had been averted. The Russians had come through at the eleventh hour with a gas deal, but they had lost the Saparova woman. A life sacrificed by her own hand. Pictures had surfaced of Jo, connecting Bibi and the assassination of Thumper to the Service. They would have to get them out of circulation. Did it ever end? Harry wanted nothing more than to close his eyes. His bed would be cold, sleep would elude him but at least he could rest his weary bones. He continued to let Blake's words circle in his head. After all, there was no one for him to talk to. He had no one in whom to place his trust.

The phone on his desk gave a shrill ring. His thoughts interrupted, Harry frowned at the offending device. Annoying piece of technology. For years, he had vowed to change the ear-splitting ring tone but was not in possession of the patience to figure it out. Irked by the late-night interruption, he picked up the receiver.

"Pearce," he barked.

His greeting was met with silence. He inhaled impatiently, waiting for the other party to speak. He was on the verge of a terse prompt when a voice spoke up.

"It's me."

Harry sat back in his seat, stunned by the sound of Ruth's voice, instantly regretting his harsh greeting. He was supposed to be the one to call her. He blinked and quickly looked about his office wondering if he had fallen asleep and dreamt up the call. He shook his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I…" She cleared her throat. "Jo came to see me."

Harry's grip tightened on the handset. He had been found out.

"Did she?" he asked, feigning innocence.

"I think you know she did."

Harry closed his eyes and held his breath, steeling himself for the reprimand that was sure to follow.

"I want to come back."

Harry nearly dropped the receiver. "I'm not sure if I heard you correctly."

"You said if I needed work…"

"Yes, of course." He blinked, thankful that his offer from their first meeting had not fallen on deaf ears.

"I've had some time to think. I need to do something with my life. Something that matters."

Harry grappled with the unexpected news. He had no idea what Jo had said to convince Ruth to return to the Grid but he would make certain the officer received a raise.

"When can you start?"

"When do you need me?"

"Now." The word came out on a reflex. He grimaced, he should have held back, kept the upper hand. "What I meant to say was, I've spoken to the Home Secretary. I'm sure you're anxious to get your identification back."

"Yes, I am. Perhaps we could meet somewhere tomorrow."

"No," he countered. He inhaled deeply, collecting himself. He was beset by the temptation to find out if he could still exercise that particular brand of command he once held over her. He gave in to it and lowered his voice., "Come here."

He could hear her breath.

He closed his eyes, pressing the receiver closer to his ear. It was ridiculous, this tiny little battle he had created in his mind. The notion that if she were to concede to his request, it would be a sign that he was on his way to winning her back.

"Alright."

He smiled into the receiver. It probably didn't mean anything, the woman needed her identification, but he took it as a small victory that he could still summon her. A thought crossed his mind.

"It's late. How did you know that I would still be here?"

"I know you," she replied.

This time it was his turn to expel a breath into the receiver. Three simple words, a tacit acknowledgement of their past. He regained his composure.

"Tomorrow then," he confirmed.

"Tomorrow," she echoed.

He replaced the receiver, his smile growing wider. Events had progressed far faster than he had anticipated. He would have to recalibrate his moves. He pulled out his mobile. Strange that she had not called him on it. He opened the contact list, his thumb hovering over a number that belonged to a woman. In the intervening years, he had succumbed to loneliness and given into primal urges, found his way into the beds of partners who asked nothing of him. Did Ruth's return signal that those days were over? No, he would not delete the number yet. He pocketed the mobile and cleared the papers from his desk. All that mattered, he told himself. was that he would finally have a decent analyst. He would not allow himself to think of anything more.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 - The World of the Living

It was quite potent, the ability to raise the dead, and for a brief moment, Harry let himself sit amongst the gods. It was more common that he presided over the demise of an officer than orchestrate their rise from the ashes. Bring on his burning bow and chariot of fire. He gave an inward smile at the hyperbole of his thoughts but did nothing to restrain them. A day like today was as rare as the transit of Venus. Guilt was firmly pushed to the back of his mind. It had been pre-ordained that Ruth would return to him, enfolded once more inside the circle of knowledge. No coercion necessary, she had made the decision of her own free will. But then, that was how the gods played, let mortals believe they forged their own destiny while fate realigned the pieces according to its own design. Never mind, it was the outcome that mattered. A wise man would take the victory and relish it, content to sit in its glow. But not Harry. It made him hungry for more. He sat back in his chair and surveyed his domain.

Since Ruth's departure, the floor plan of the Grid had experienced a number of revisions, even the pod doors had succumbed to the tentacles of technology. Thankfully, his office had escaped such advancements. It was through a fluke of design and by no machination on his part that Ruth's desk sat directly in front of his window. Though she might not see it as merely a coincidence. He reserved judgement as to whether this would prove to be a comfort or a distraction. Through the tempered glass, he studied her form, the rounded slouch of her shoulders so familiar. Absorbed in reacquainting herself in their systems, she gave no indication that she was aware of being observed. Though he was the one encased in glass, she was the specimen for study. Long ago, during a lazy summer, he had found a dragonfly, fascinated by its glittering wings. He had captured it in a jar, only to learn it was called a damselfly. It had spurred his imagination to medieval fancies; he a knight rescuing a damsel. He had tended to the creature, caring for its needs. He would do the same with Ruth, though any signs of her iridescence were markedly subdued. The offending grey coat, cause of his consternation, hung off of the back of her chair. He would burn it. He would raze the vestiges of her previous life and build a new one.

Peace, a scarce commodity these days, settled around him. A sense of satisfaction prevailed, pride in the team that he had assembled. He had negotiated Lucas' release from a Russian prison and extracted Ros from the tentacles of Yalta. Granted, Jo was still coping with the trauma of the Razorbacks, but she was young and strong. Tariq was an unknown, but Harry had every faith in his technological wizardry. He had lost the steady rudder of Malcolm, but if there was a good way for a spook to leave the service, alive and by one's own decision was the best route. He could not fault the former techie for wanting to go out on his own steam, indeed over the past years, Harry had mulled over the idea of stepping down, but there was always one more battle drawing him back in. With Ruth's return, there was wind in his sails. Of course, the scales of the universe must maintain balance. With every triumph there was tribulation.

Eight of the wealthiest men in the world were held hostage in a bunker and hidden amongst them was Ros. The thought intruded on his consciousness, the sheen of his contentment dulled. He remained calm, there was no need to worry for her safety yet. If there was anyone who possessed the cunning to defuse the situation it was Ros. He would not entertain the idea of an outcome that was less than satisfactory. Lucas and Jo were onsite as a backup. Tariq and Ruth were ferreting out connections. It was, as always, a waiting game.

.

If politics was the art of postponing a decision until it was no longer relevant, then the Home Secretary had missed that particular day in class. Harry tapped the tip on his mobile against his forehead, weighing his options. Storming the bunker now would result in untold casualties. Harry could only assume that the Americans had gotten to Blake. No doubt they were holding some sort of ultimatum over his head. He needed more time. He was certain that Ros with her cool calculation would somehow finesse a way out of the situation. Or that Lucas and Jo could circumvent the elevator to the bunker. Or that Tariq could override the system. If they followed Blake's scenario there would be no winners. The window in which to operate was quickly closing. He would not lose Ros to a completely avoidable blood bath. He needed Ruth. He had tasked her with sorting out the connection between Finn Lambert and his lawyer, Benson. Sorceress of information, he could always count on her to find connections where others could not.

A glance through his window told him she was not at her desk. Where was she? She had no place to go. Eyes flicked to his watch as he assessed the hour, pressure propelled him from his chair, fueling his steps. His head swerved about the Grid as he searched for her. She must be cloistered with Tariq.

The technical suite had not escaped the hand of progress. Flickering lights from high-resolution monitors cast spectral shadows, and a lone figure sat studying the multiple screens. The face of Mickelson, scared and defiant, played on every screen. Harry stopped, a silhouette catching his attention. A slight tilt to the head, hair clipped at the neck, scribbling on a pad of paper. It was her. She had returned to him in all her youth and beauty, taking up her rightful position.

"Ruth," he whispered into the empty corridor.

He slowly stepped toward the suite, not wanting to dispel the image, but as his feet took him closer, he realised his mistake. It was not Ruth, but a junior analyst, a young woman that he may have hired because she bore a certain resemblance to a former employee. A trick of the mind bringing fancy to reality. Harry blinked, pulling himself back into the moment. The face of Mickelson looked back at him, eyes accusing, reminding Harry of his duty. The analyst pressed a button, the image on the screen moved, and Harry turned away, blocking out the gunshot that ended the man's life. Nothing could be done to save him now. Stop loss, and carry on. Harry picked up his pace and walked past the technical suite, the inhabitant none the wiser for his lapse of reason. He did not look at his watch, knowing that time would pass with or without his constant attention. Frustration piqued at his inability to find his analyst. Where could she be?

He halted at the door of the briefing room. A different silhouette, almost imperceptible in the murky half-light. The weight of her head bowed the willow curve of her spine, hair hiding her face, Ruth stood completely still. If he didn't know any better, Harry might think she was hiding. He dismissed the idea and convinced himself that she was deep in thought, puzzling out a connection that only she could see. Hopefully, it was regarding Lambert's lawyer.

"I've been looking for you,"

Startled, her head snapped up and she looked at him, wild-eyed. She quickly turned away and picked up a stray paper, regaining her composure. "Sorry. I was just using this space to concentrate. Not use to all the bustle. There's a money trail but I can't figure out where it starts."

"Blake wants to storm the bunker," Harry stated blankly. There was no time to waste on idle chit chat.

"That madness," she exclaimed. "We can't do that. The place is rigged to the hilt. No one will survive."

"I know. I told him as much. But he's intent on going through with it. I suspect the Cousins are behind his decision. There must be a way to talk Lambert down."

"I've been thinking about the girl - Nina."

"You believe she's the weak link?"

"Why would she betray her uncle like that?"

"We can't read her mind."

"Isn't that what we do, Harry? Get inside people's heads."

"You pointed out that she was disillusioned with her life. Lambert found a vulnerability and preyed on it. We've seen it happen before."

"I know."

She cast her eyes back over the papers, leaving Harry to wonder if there was a deeper meaning to her she accusing him of worming his way inside people's heads? He wanted to get inside of her head, divine what she was thinking.

"I'm sure Ros is astute enough to figure out that the way to a man is usually through a woman."

"Yes," Ruth folded a piece of paper, running her thumbnail down the crease with excessive pressure, "I'm sure she's well acquainted with that strategy."

The paper received another fold, the contents of the page hidden and tucked away. Harry suspected it was not the information on the page that she wished to keep concealed from him. The tick of his internal clock sounded. He didn't have the time to navigate her internal maze.

"I'm pulling in Sarah Caulfield."

"The CIA Liaison?"

"It's time we invited the neighbours over, don't you think?"

"She's not going to give up any information."

"She might think twice if we threaten to go to the media with this."

Ruth knew how he worked. Results were all that mattered. If they ruffled the feathers of the new Liason, so be it. It was his city, they would play by his rules. Her attention returned to sorting the papers, nervous fingers flying. Something was troubling her. Harry wanted to lay his hands on top of hers, still her flapping. Instead, he thrust his hands deeper into his pockets.

"I want you in the room with me."

"Me?" Ruth looked at him with alarm. "I just got back. I'm still trying to figure out how the printer works."

"You're all that I have."

Her lips parted, the subtext of his admission filling the room. He had not meant it to be sentimental, but the words had fallen far softer than he had intended, adding a level of meaning that he did not consciously wish to convey. It was true; she was all that he had left. He stared back at her, momentarily sidetracked from his original mission. Instinct told him to retreat. He closed his mouth hoping to gloss over the glimpse of vulnerability. He had promised himself he would keep everything entirely professional.

"Ros is with the hostages, Lucas and Jo are on site. I need someone to sit in on the meeting with Miss Caulfield. You're the most senior officer I have."

Ruth nodded, accepting his explanation. It had the desired effect, any leaked emotion was carefully tucked away as if it had never even existed.

"Besides, it would be two against one." He gave Ruth an assuring smile, dispelling any intimacy, yet luring her back into that relationship where they had excelled; force and knowledge. He tapped his finger on the table. "Give me the most salient facts. We'll use it to get Miss Caulfield to cough up Lambert's backer."

Assured that she was on board with his plan, Harry took a step back and made to leave. Purely as an afterthought, he spoke to her over his shoulder.

"Hope other than the printer everything is working out all right."

She expelled a huff of breath and he delayed leaving the room, thinking that she had found a pertinent piece of information. He retraced his steps back to her.

"What is it?"

She closed her eyes, her fingers gripping the edge of a file folder. An inward struggle for containment. She eased her grip, and Harry presumed the affliction had also abated. He was prepared for her to dismiss him, say it was nothing. That was how it was done.

"They shot him," she whispered. "Point blank in the head. And then they broadcasted it."

Harry's hands fell to his sides. He had been right to suspect her earlier stillness. She had not come into that room to concentrate. She had come there to seek refuge. He had stumbled upon her, crashing her effort to regroup. They were in the middle of an op, they needed to stay focused.

"You mean Mickelson?" he asked, though he knew what she was talking about,

"All we could do was sit there and watch it happen. Helpless."

The similarities between Mickleson's execution and George's murder had not entirely escaped Harry, but out of a sense of self-preservation, he had made a conscious decision to ignore them. He had assumed that she would do the same. The life of a solitary man had led him to believe that others worked as he did. In his haste to have her return to him, he had underestimated her ability to compartmentalise. Selfish man that he was, he had not cared. He expected others to heal on the job just as he had. A shard of anger pricked him. Irked at his own misstep, annoyed at her lack of fortitude. He wanted her to be stronger. He knew that she had it in her, the ability to suppress emotions in the face of an active operation. She had done it in the past. No, he thought, what she had done in the past is showed him what he had lacked. He rubbed his brow. It was not the time for introspection.

"This is a completely different situation."

"Lambert showed no remorse. Nothing."

Harry stepped in closer but Ruth did not look at him, her focus remained on the file in front of her. The muted light of the briefing room cast a blue tinge over her skin, her face pale as if one day on the Grid had already drained her of her colour. It was the closest that he had stood to her since her return. Their meeting on the bridge had been amongst a sea of people, the few minutes in his office interrupted by a call from the Home Secretary. They were finally alone, inhabiting a world of trauma that only they shared. Not the first death they had known, but the darkest, a blot on both of their souls. It bound them in an ouroboros of guilt. The hairs on his arms stirred, searching for that charge of electricity that had once arced between them. There was nothing. If only he could create something more, build the connection they once had.

"If you want to talk to somebody…"

"I don't know if I can."

"There's a psychologist…"

Her shoulders stiffened and she inhaled a sharp breath.

Damn it, he had miscalculated, offered the wrong solution. What else was there to do? He was ill-equipped to guide her through this emotional minefield. That was what the experts were for. A woman of her sensibilities would know that.

"You'll have to talk to someone eventually."

Her head followed her body as she turned directly to him, eyes penetrating. "Who do you talk to, Harry?"

He could not hide. She saw through him, knew him. There was no answer he could give. The psychological ministrations of the Service were for his team not for him. She knew his means of coping. Drink and denial. And sex. Though he hoped she wasn't aware of the last one or indeed how he had used the third option as a means of dealing with her departure. He placed a hand on the table, diminishing the physical space between them, painfully aware that it would do nothing to bridge the emotional distance. As much as he wanted to stop the world and tend to his own bruises, he had to push that aside and concentrate on the operation.

He met her eyes. In the space between a heartbeat, the flicker of spark appeared, catching him off guard. The whisper of a flame from a long-forgotten tinderbox sputtered, searching for fuel, ready to burn. They only needed to feed it. She averted her gaze, closing the lid, denying it oxygen. His fist curled inside his pocket.

"We have a chance to save the remaining people," he coaxed her, his voice carrying a hint of steel. "We have to stay focused. If you can't-"

"No, I'm fine," she quickly interjected.

"There is no room for error here, I need your mind, your intellect.-"

"It's okay," she assured him, well aware that he was writing emotion out of the equation.

"I need all of you."

It could be construed two ways, he needed all of the members of his team, or he needed everything from Ruth. She could take it as she liked; he would not elaborate.

"I'm fine."

There it was, the restrained that he depended on, the self-control that would keep them together in a crisis.

"Do you want me to get Miss Caulfield in?" Ruth asked.

"No, I'll call her"

His hand relaxed in his pocket, confidence in his analyst restored. He would always be able to summon her.

.

The brittle power that he had exalted in that morning lay shattered at his feet. He was no saver of souls. The clack of his office door sliding across its track mocked his fall from grace. She had closed it; shutting him in, keeping her out. No words passed between them; Ruth had instinctively known that Jo had died. As if in accordance with her assurance that morning that she was fine, she did not shed a tear in his office, though he could see them brimming as she walked away from him.

A trade, one for the other. Harry refused to think that the price for Ruth's return was Jo's death. He rested his elbows on the desk, the weight of his head falling into his hands. He understood Ruth's inability to hold it up under such a burden. Another sacrifice to the gods of the intelligence service. He had lost so many. Surely, the debt must be repaid by now.

A low sob filtered through the panel of his door.

He should go to her, comfort her. His chest was empty. He had nothing, no reserve to offer succour to another. He could barely keep his body and mind together. Stay strong, hold it in, show no weakness. Find the words, pat sentiments, anything, just go to her.

He opened the door. She was gone. A sense of relief washed over him. It was short-lived. There would be no reconciliation without an emotional reckoning. That was a campaign that could not be waged in one day. He could not avoid it forever. He needed to talk to someone, and it would have to be her. She was the only one he had left.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N - Thank you for your patience over the holidays. I hope everyone had a lovely time. We now return to our regularly scheduled angst. _

_._

Chapter 4 - There'll Always be Something Else

It was not one of his regular benches. The struts and slats of the benches that he usually favoured were tainted with the talk of politics and governmental affairs, the wood steeped with subterfuge and secrets. The bench on which he now sat was meant for a far different conversation. The type of which he usually did his utmost to avoid. He squinted across the river. The morning light hovered on the horizon as the city blinked awake, the dawning of a new day, made for resolutions and new beginnings. The sun, intent on its ageless task, cared nothing for mourners.

The previous night, alone in his house with only alcohol for company, Harry had phoned Ruth. The conversation short, her voice tired, but she had agreed to meet him. Was it unfair to summon her? To make her a vessel in which to pour his particular brand of grief over Jo? He did not allow himself to dwell on those thoughts. After all, it was Ruth who had subtly hinted that he needed to talk to someone. It had only taken him three glasses of scotch to unpack the underlying meaning of her words from the day before. He kicked himself for his obtuse ways and called her straightaway not wanting to lose another opportunity. There may have been other motives for seeking her out, a more visceral need, one that his higher mind did its best to ignore. The desire to get her alone, claim her as his, find their way back to who they once were. A conversation about Jo could easily turn into a conversation about them. It was in his nature to play every angle; it was the type of thinking that had extended his tenure as the Head of Counterterrorism. He was also buying time. In less than an hour, he would have to step back onto the Grid and assume the stoic facade that accompanied his position. He was aware enough to know that he needed to shore up his reserves before he could become a pillar of strength to others. He dreaded the thought of facing Ros. Wracking his brain for words, he could only come up with the same pat sentiments, recommend counselling, mumble trite talking points about grief. He was counting on the steely constitution of his Section Chief. Ros was ice, but even ice was known to crack. He had seen it happen before, one tap to a seemingly impenetrable surface, slowly spreading into fissures, and then splintering into a thousand pieces. The act of shooting one's colleague to save a room of thankless millionaires could very well be that tipping point. He would unburden himself to Ruth, ask for her help on how to deal with Ros, draw strength from her and possibly steer the conversation towards a more personal topic. He had already dropped a leading question, a little earlier in the conversation than he had initially intended, and it now sat between them, ready to receive an answer. He shifted to look at his companion on the bench, waiting for her to speak.

Fingers absently picking at the cuff of her coat, Ruth kept her gaze out over the river. A narrowboat sped by, churning the water, clipping close to the side of a slow-moving barge. The crew of the barge yelled an intelligible curse as their craft rocked in the wake of the faster boat. It altered its course and pulled over to a small dock. Ruth's attention remained on the boat as it moored itself. Harry studied her profile. Her hair looked uncombed, her cheeks drawn, dark circles under her eyes. He suspected that she had not slept the previous night, and had most likely forsaken sleep many nights before that. She had done nothing to remedy her appearance, and he was slightly irked that a meeting with him did not merit the effort. He quickly chastised himself for such shallow thoughts in the face of grief, but maintained that it did not bode well. Inattentiveness to grooming could be a sign of declining mental state; he would have to keep an eye on her. Every day she was looking paler, and he dreaded to think that she may indeed prove to be a ghost, only to one day completely vanish. Was it wrong of him to bring her back to the Grid? Should he have let her have her normal life, content to be a clerk shuffling papers, let her heal in the outside world. Thankfully, he did not have to answer those questions; her words broke into his thoughts.

"I remember you once said that should be my middle name."

"What's that?" Having mentally stepped away from the conversation, he struggled to understand her meaning.

"Something else. You said that should be my middle name."

"I don't remember that."

"You were yelling at me, for some reason that I can't remember."

"I never yelled at you," he responded with a touch of indignation.

She gave a small huff, refuting his words, albeit tactfully. "You were facing my direction and talking at a loud volume."

Harry shifted in his seat and briefly glanced away. She was right of course. He begrudgingly admitted that more often than not, she had been the lightning rod to his temper, but he did not want that to be her only memory of him. He had changed. Granted, in the days and weeks after her departure, he had scowled and raged his way across the Grid, anger his default setting. But the constant drip of time had served to erode his anger, wearing away his harder edges.

"I'd like to think I've mellowed a bit." In time, she would see for herself that he was a different man. "People have been known to change."

"Jo had changed from when I last saw her."

"She'd been through a lot." He dared not divulge the details of what Jo had experienced; that the young woman had been walking on an emotional tightrope for quite some time.

"There was something hard about her."

Harry leaned in closer, intrigued by Ruth's choice of words. "What do you mean?"

"You know, the way you start cutting off pieces of yourself."

Harry flinched, her words pricked at a forgotten spot deep within him. His grief for Jo sat like a rock in his belly, cold and hard, with no tears to melt it. He had forgotten how to cry; it allowed him to hold onto his resolve for revenge - though he had no idea from whom he could exact the payment. He could not blame Ros. Never Ros. He recovered and sat up straight, refusing to take an inventory of the pieces of himself that he had jettisoned along the way, the necessary steps to keep forging on. Ruth continued her explanation.

"The finer parts of ourselves that we shed so we don't have to feel anything."

Harry's breath halted. She was not talking about Jo. He did not respond but waited for her to continue, hoping his silence would draw more from her.

"That's when we get in trouble, isn't it?" Ruth ruminated. "When we get attached to things."

He could not fault her. She was only describing an act of self-preservation. That was how he had operated for the better part of his career, avoiding unnecessary emotional entanglements. The trait had enabled him to extract himself from more than his fair share of illicit affairs. The strategy had unwittingly fallen apart when Ruth had appeared. A strategy that he would do well to remember before revealing his inner thoughts.

"That question that you asked me," Ruth said quietly. "Was Jo the only reason that I returned…."

Harry drew a soft breath through his lips. In light of what she had just said, he wanted to retract the question. It had been asked in the rawness of the moment, it had left him vulnerable, an uncomfortable space that he did not want to inhabit. He held his breath as he waited for her to continue.

"I don't think I can give you the answer that you're looking for."

Deflated, the air escaped from his lungs. It was not the answer he longed to hear. He wanted her need for him to be the reason for her return, just as his need for her had fueled his desire to keep her close. Stung by her oblique response, hoping to hide his reaction, he turned away from her and looked out to the river.

The ropes of the barge slapped against the water as it cast off from the wharf. The boat sputtered and chugged to life, carrying on regardless of those on the shore. It continued its course downstream, now carrying hope as a passenger. Harry watched until it became nothing more than a dot in the distance. He clenched his jaw, searching for resilience. It was hard to muster considering that he had come to her for consolation and not a cold dose of reality. He could hear his heart clicking shut as he berated himself for asking the question in the first place. He had never been one to wade in the waters of emotion. It would do neither one of them any good to wallow in grief. One of them had to be strong; it would have to be him. Internal priorities shifted and he returned to the only role that he truly knew. He could navigate his way through this. He had in the past. A dalliance with a woman did not rule out a working relationship. Juliet for example. He inwardly cringed. Perhaps that wasn't the best example. The point was, he had the strength and self-control to suppress personal desires in the name of national interests. He only needed to distance himself. He closed his eyes. It was all a matter of will power; invoke the self-preservation that she had alluded to. He would start immediately. As a first step, he raised himself from the bench. He looked down on her, using the difference in height to signal a return to their former roles.

"Jo's family have indicated that they want a private funeral."

Ruth's mouth formed into a silent oh, and she nodded. He knew that she would have attended the service, welcomed the opportunity to express a formal farewell. It gave him no joy to tell her such, it was another piece she would have to abandon. She would have to form callouses once again if she were to return to the Section. Ruth rose and stood beside him.

"For some people, grief is private."

Their grief was private, each to themselves.

He moved away, keeping a pace ahead of her as they walked back to the Grid. A professional distance, he concluded, was the only remedy. That, along with a vow to avoid placing himself in a vulnerable situation ever again.

.

Knuckles rapped on his door. She did that now, and for some reason, Harry found it as irritating as her former habit of barging into his office. It was a symbol of their separation, the familiarity with him that she had once taken for granted supplanted by a sense of formality. Ruth stood in the doorway waiting for permission to enter. For a fleeting second, Harry weighed the option of ignoring her, make her work for his attention. Childish games. He knew the source of his sour mood. He was irritated that things had not fallen neatly into place, that their meeting had not gone according to his plan, and that they had not fallen into each other. He could not force the conclusion that he wanted. Opting for maturity, he inclined his head, granting her admittance. She stepped in, leaving an expanse of carpet between them. He swallowed the dismay that she chose not to stand closer to him. Her fingers tapped nervously on a file. Someday, he would burn all her files and then she would have nothing to hide behind. Char the world around them for that matter, so that they were left with only their own nakedness and forced to face whatever stood between them. For now, he sat back in his chair and eyed her dispassionately. She cleared her throat.

"I need to ask you something."

Harry remained silent, face devoid of expression, giving no indication that he was interested in what she had to say. She had approached him earlier about an old asset of Malcolm's and he assumed she was reporting back on the little side quest she had undertaken. Her eyes darted back and forth, her demeanour becoming skittish. He was secretly pleased that he could still have an effect on her. She took a step back.

"This might not be the right time."

Harry raised an eyebrow in silent agreement. They were not the only ones wrestling with ghosts. A spectre from Lucas' past had washed up on their shores. They were locked in a game of cat and mouse with his former captor, Desharvin. Harry was more than a little worried at the toll that it was taken on his officer's mental state. In the interest of moving the conversation along, Harry conceded to her point.

"There may never be a right time."

His words did nothing to draw out her inquiry, so he made a circular motion with his hand. There was no happy medium with this woman. Either she was bursting with information or holding onto it like a sphinx. When she did not want to give anything up it was like pulling teeth from a cat. Especially, if it was something of a personal nature. He sat up slightly in his chair. Her reticence could very well mean she was marshalling the nerve to broach a more intimate subject. Was this it then? Had she given thought to their conversation on the bench and chosen this moment to reopen the topic?

"What is it?" he prompted softly.

"I've run low on funds."

Harry blinked as he squared her comment with the operations of the Grid. "Do you need petty cash for the analyst desk?"

"No. I, myself, don't have any money."

"Oh."

Harry took a moment to digest her words, reordering his expectations on how he had envisioned the conversation unfolding. He reflected on her ordinary world predicament and volunteered the first solution that came to mind. After all, he was responsible for her.

"If that's the case, I'd be happy to give you-"

"Oh no, no," She quickly held up her hand, cutting him off, embarrassed at his offer. "That's not what I meant. I just need you to sign this form and I can get an advance on my salary."

"An advance?"

She juggled the papers in the file and pulled one out. Puzzled, he stared at the form that she held out toward him, disheartened that she did not need his help. He spoke before thinking.

"Surely, you must qualify for some sort of compensation for the loss of your-"

This time, he was the one who cut off his thoughts. He did not want to say the word aloud - husband. Voicing it would give a disheartening reality to a relationship of which he had no part.

"I wouldn't ask, except I need a few things in order to function. Tube fare, clothes, bills to pay."

The minutiae of daily life. All the things that he had taken for granted, tasks taken off of his plate and handled by other people. Driver, housekeeper, accountant. Allowing him to focus on the security of the country. Removed from the mendacity of everyday life.

"That's perfectly understandable."

"I wouldn't bring this up in the middle of an op but my money is tied up in Cypress and I haven't been able to sort it all out yet."

He held out his hand for the paper, his former irritation with her forgotten. "Think nothing of it."

She crossed to the edge of the desk and placed the form in front of him. As he scrawled his signature across the page, he covertly studied her outfit. A dark blue shirt lacking any feminity and an ankle-length skirt. A proper puritan. He came to the realisation that she had been wearing the same set of clothes over the past week. It was purely a managerial observation. His pen paused. An indefinable sadness overcame him, a longing for something that was lost. Gone were the days of subtly suggestive necklines, the dip of a necklace hinting at cleavage, the top of her breasts rising a falling with temptation. The colour red seeped into his consciousness. He looked at her trying to imagine if she had ever worn such a colour. It was probably the light reflecting off of the walls of his office. On closer inspection, she looked to have brushed her hair and tinted her lips. It was not the dark hue she had once favoured, but he took it as a good omen. It was a soft, subtle shade. A colour that was less likely to stain a shirt or leave a mark. Lost in thought, he did not realise that his hand had frozen over the page. The object of his study shifted from one foot to the other.

"If you're done I can take that back and get it sent off."

She held out her hand, unable to bear his scrutiny. He did not hand back the paper. He wanted to keep her in his office. Sod his vow to erect defences and keep his distance. If she were half a world away he could do as much, but he had to see her every day, stand beside her, see her lips. There was no harm in falling back into his old ways, the occasional indulgence in a flight of fancy. Or thoughts of a more lurid nature, should his mind be so inclined. In moderation, as long as he did not act on it. He had been alone for so long, had sorely missed the soothing balm of a feminine presence. Connie had certainly abjured the role, and though Ros had taken up the mantle of sounding board, she had never been able to fill the more distaff demands of the section. That had always fallen to Ruth. He could draw that role out of her again. He had been vexed by a problem, unable to form a solution. She would be the one to help him.

"I need to talk to you about a matter."

Ruth motioned to the door. "I'm trawling for-"

"Have a seat."

"The last location of-"

"Sit."

She quickly sat down.

Harry paused for a moment, appreciating the fact that his bark could still command such deference. It filled him with a familiar sensation. Control. He would hold on to it. Placing his hands on the desk, he laced his fingers together. Her eyes widened, worried that she was about to be the recipient of bad news. He let her squirm, relishing the situation before he continued.

"It would seem that we have a case of interagency fraternisation on our hands."

With the use of the word we, he claimed her for his side. If they could not find their way back to each other romantically, they could at least reclaim the shared parenting of the section. Ruth let out a breath of relief.

"You mean Lucas and Sarah Caulfield."

"You knew?"

"I heard whispers."

A moue of exasperation crossed his lips. She had only been back a few days and already she knew more about his staff than he did. The frustration was underscored by the fact that she had not thought it important to impart such whispers to him.

"Does Ros know?"

"That's where I heard the whisper."

Somehow, he found it hard to believe that his Section Chief would lower herself to office gossip. His ire spilt over to Ros. He would have to have a word with her.

"At any rate, it looks like we have another Christine Dale."

"Or Tom Quinn," Ruth quipped, one eyebrow raised.

Of course, she would bring up Tom. The one time object of her hero-worship, along with other notions that probably ran along a more amorous vein. Harry stopped himself before delving too far into that memory, knowing that if he were to dig any deeper he would come up against his own jealousy.

"What do they see in these American women?"

"I couldn't say."

The dryness of her reply suggested that she still harboured a bit of ill will toward Christine Dale and the whole Tom affair. Harry sat back in his chair, looking for a way to tarnish the memory of her hero.

"I'm sure I don't have to remind you how the Tom incident unravelled."

"A bullet in your shoulder, as I recall."

Harry's pectoral muscle gave an involuntary spasm. Unnoticed by her, he hoped. Her eyes fell to his chest, indicating otherwise. They knew each other's wounds. The conversation threatened to become about him. He tapped his fingers on the desk, frustrated by the shortness of her replies. She was keeping him at arm's length, no hint of commiseration in her voice. He would not be deterred.

"The question is what to do in this situation."

She blinked rapidly but was unable to hide her surprise. "Are you asking me for advice on affairs of the heart?"

"Only were operational matters are concerned."

"Of course, those are the only ones that matter.

Her composure returned and she looked cooly back at him. If there was a hidden meaning to her words it was lost on him. He could only acknowledge the irony of trying to solve someone else's affairs when he could not even attend to his own.

"I have to put an end to it."

"You came down hard on Tom and that only made him more determined. Its human nature to want what we can't have."

Their eyes met, briefly, not as long as he would have liked. It would appear that lingering glances had gone the way of tempting tops and ruby lips.

"Are you suggesting that I allow this dalliance to continue?"

Ruth weighed her answer. "I think you should caution him. Tell him that he needs to follow proper channels. Have her vetted and accept whatever conclusion comes from that process. That way you're not levelling some sort of draconian decree."

"Draconian?"

She shifted realising how her choice of words reflected on him. "You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure that I do." He looked at her blankly, relishing the tiny thrill of putting her on the spot.

"It's just when things are delivered with a heavy hand it tends to crush rather than build."

"So you're saying a gentler approach would be better."

"Yes."

"I'm not a nursemaid."

"Think of it as the policy of appeasement then."

"Would you have me do nothing about it?" His voice became strident, stunned that she could not see the situation as he did.

She countered back, equally aggrieved that he did not understand her. "Why do you have to do anything? "

"It's a security risk."

The volume rose another notch, perilously close to yelling. She would not be cowed.

"What we do on our own time is our business. As long as it doesn't interfere with work."

Her words sounded familiar, he may have uttered them himself, though he could not recollect the circumstances. A frown played across her forehead as if she too remembered a conversation. To his surprise, her eyes found his. They stayed fixed on him, remaining past the time when it would have been prudent to look away. Drawn into each other, they searched for the memory. Distance evaporated, replaced by a quality far more enticing. Her posture softened along with her look, and her voice.

"Sometimes things happen organically."

She gave a slight cant to her head and the hint of a smile; a winsome move that he had witnessed in the past. He stared, momentarily transfixed by the glimpse of her former self. He did not want to let go of it. He held her eyes, urging her to say more. She licked her lips.

"You never know, he might come to you."

Her voice was strangely husky. An invitation to intimacy? No, it was his imagination. He would not allow himself to think as such. He was a broken weather vane unable to gauge the direction of the wind. He could only glean that she was asking him to wait; though for what he could not be certain. Calling upon his resolve, Harry sat up in his chair, brushing away extraneous thoughts.

"I'll take your advice into consideration.

He returned his focus to his desktop, dismissing her. She rose and approached the desk. She reached out her hand, her fingers coming into his view.

"I need that piece of paper."

Her hand was bare, no garish rings or polish, and yet it stirred something within him. The faint recollection of her touch. He wanted to reach out and capture it. He could. Pull her across the desk, salve their wounds with the combined heat of their bodies and cauterise the past.

A second ticked by and reason returned.

He handed the paper to her.

Foregoing any further conversation, she walked out of the office and Harry was left to ruminate on the conversation. This might prove harder than he anticipated. Just when he thought he had all his defences in order, she came at him from another direction. He shook his head. It was senseless to divine too much into the meaning of her words. He only wanted her because he could not have her. That was the explanation. After a while, they would fall into a routine, become accustomed to one another, and resume the rut of the familiar.

Harry picked up the receiver of his phone. He may not be able to console her but he could make her life easier in other respects.

.

The movement on the other side of the glass caught his eye. The arm of Ruth's coat was turned inside out, and she struggled as she wrestled with the material. Harry watched, thinking he should step out and lend her a hand. His chivalrous instinct was circumvented when Tariq walked over and offered assistance. Coat on, they remained standing close to each other, heads bent in conversation. Ruth nodded, a look of concern on her face. She raised her hand and placed it on Tariq's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. The muscle in Harry's chest contracted, a cold ache seeping through his upper arm. It was the damp, he told himself. He tried to shrug the ache away but it would not leave. Tariq returned to his desk and picked up his leather jacket. Ruth joined him and they walked toward the pods. With a quick slide of the doors, they disappeared.

Overtaken by curiosity, Harry walked out onto the Grid. Ros sat at her desk, but she did not acknowledge his presence. She did not need her eyes to sense why he was there. Harry deflected.

"Where's Lucas?"

"Back at his flat, I would presume." Knowing the real reason for Harry's appearance, Ros looked up from her computer. "Tariq's having a tough go. Ruth's doing a bit of emotional caretaking."

Jealousy, betrayal, anger, those and a host of other undefined emotions shot through Harry in quick succession. His fingers curled and he willed them away, careful to guard his thoughts. He sensed that he was being observed by Ros. He turned and met her steady gaze. She knew; though she would never be so foolish as to state it outright.

"I've already had a talk with Lucas about Nancy Drew," she informed him. " I'll have another one if you like."

He could count on Ros for a different kind of strength. Armour forged from the same metal, they understood each other. There were those that hurt and those that heal. They were both of the former. Ruth could tend Tariq, they had other duties. He and Ros would stand together. He gave her a nod, signalling their solidarity. He would do all that he could to support her.

Harry's eyes strayed back to the pod doors. Ruth had chosen to give her comfort to Tariq. A void opened up inside him, though he had no right to feel the loss, after all, he had wanted her to resume that role. He should be thankful that she had returned to one of her old ways. But oh, how he wished that she had chosen him. He conceded that it was better this way. As long as he had Ros he could hold the line. They would leave the healing to others.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - The Mind's Construction in the Face

Ghosts, both living and dead hounded the trails of mortal men. And women too, it would seem. Harry snapped his mobile shut, turning on his heels, his footsteps taking him back down the corridor. His original destination forgotten, he moved without thought, muttering. He cursed Ros for putting herself in danger. Cursed Jack Coleville for baiting his best officer. And then for good measure, added an extra scourge against Lucas, for no particular reason, except for the lingering suspicion that the man was still seeing Sarah Caulfield. Harry raised his head, his ghost walking toward him.

Boots tapping, Ruth strode down the hallway, the speed of her steps causing her hair to fly back over her shoulders. Eyes flicking over Harry, she barely acknowledged his presence. She maintained her breakneck pace as she neared her boss, talking quickly, explaining her haste, excusing her inability to stop.

"I've got word out to officers serving and not, warning them to be vigilant." She shifted the folders in her hand, demonstrating the tasks that she was juggling. "Going through Coleville's past operations. Along with Brayden's movements. Winchcombe's call logs. And, I'm just on my way to collate Walker's-"

As she neared him, Ruth saw Harry's expression and slowed down.

"What is it?"

Harry paused before answering. Her cheeks were flushed, face animated, eyes sparkling. Her docket was full, his demands taxing her energies, and she loved it. Immersed in her work, she had no time to ruminate on darker subjects. It pleased Harry, and he curled his fingers around his mobile. The feel of the device reminded him of his earlier conversation.

"Word in from Lucas. Coleville left Ros a welcoming present at his flat."

"What was it?"

"A bomb."

"Good God! Is she alright?"

"Yes, thankfully." Harry let out a huff of exasperation. "I told her no heroics. I wish she could see how that man is manipulating her."

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Maybe she does."

"Coleville knows how to push her buttons. And she knowingly walks into it."

"He was her mentor, they spent a great deal of time together. It's hard to walk away from a history like that. He was a big part of her life. At this point, who else does she have?"

The clatter of trolley wheels echoed from further down the corridor. Monitors and cables destined for Tariq, equipment needed for the mirror site that he was creating in order to buy time from Coleville's prying eyes. Ruth moved closer to the wall to allow the trolley passage. Harry stepped with her and cast a furtive glance at the retreating cart. There was already enough fodder about him on the Grid, no good would come of adding to it.

"Coleville spun Ros some tale about me and torture in Gibraltar."

Ruth's brow rose once again. He had planted a seed. She knew enough of his past to not completely dismiss such an outrageous notion.

"There's nothing to it," he assured her.

Ruth nodded. She didn't believe him. He knew that in a quiet moment she would research the validity of the accusation - as any decent analyst would. Harry silently cursed her doggedness and redirected the conversation away from himself and back to Ros.

"I can't help but think that she's deliberately putting herself in harm's way.

"It would make sense."

"Why do you say that?"

"She killed Jo."

The words, spoken aloud between them for the first time, dropped like an anvil. Harry's ears rung with the clang of their reverberations. It was a charge against Ros, and by association, an indictment against him. He stared at Ruth, waiting for her to retract the hard intent of her statement. Ruth stared back at him, defiant, challenging him to refute the facts. The truth was that he could not. The problem lay in the space between the facts. Ruth had observed enough operations to understand that each situation required particular nuance. It was disingenuous of her not to acknowledge that. It was the kind of choice that every officer dreads, one that he had made many times in the past. Sacrifice the few to save the many. Assigning blame was useless. But in Ruth's mind, Ros had already been tried and convicted. The defendant absent, Harry was compelled to come to Ros' defence.

"It was an operational decision."

"Oh yes, that's right," Ruth's voice was curt. "That always makes it more acceptable. It doesn't matter who dies as long as the operation is a success."

Harry shifted closer, a warning that their voices could be heard by passing members of the Grid.

"You know that's not true. It was an impossible choice in an impossible situation. We can't blame Ros."

"I can."

Stunned by her assertion, Harry's mouth fell open. The stab of a dagger would have been less painful. Her condemnation of Ros poked a wound. She still blamed him for George. Anger and frustration, building since her return, coalesced within him. How dare she? She had no experience with operational decisions. She had not been in the bunker, under a bomb threat, forced to make a choice in a split second. The tips of his fingers tingled with rage, but a voice in his head called for self-control. Ruth's confession had exposed a rip in the fabric of the team. He could not let it grow, watch the Section fall apart at the seams. He inhaled deeply, buying time, looking for the narrow path between Ruth's grief and Ros' actions. Unable to completely abandon his annoyance, he hissed at Ruth through gritted teeth.

"You know nothing of the situation."

"You're right," she conceded.

Harry straightened up, acknowledging her concession, but his moment of triumph was short-lived when she continued to speak.

"I only know that Ros was instrumental in upending my life. She knew that you and I-" Ruth stopped short, realising the potency of her words were she to define their past relationship. Conscious that they made be overheard, she lowered her voice. "Ros knew that I was of value to you and that I could be used as leverage. She went straight to Oliver Mace. It was revenge against you for her farther and I got the fallout."

Of all the baggage that lay strewn between them, this was a scenario that he had not anticipated. Momentarily knocked back by the revelation, Harry struggled to find a foothold in the conversation. He bent his head lower, but Ruth spoke before he could, her voice laced with distressed.

"That day is stamped into my memory. God, it was cold. And everything that I touched unravelled, and I couldn't get it back-"

Harry moved closer, blocking out the memory with his body. He would not let her slide back to that day, revisit another host of choices made under equally impossible circumstances.

"People change."

"Do they?"

"Ros has redeemed herself."

"And you made her your Section Chief."

"She's the best one I've had."

"Better than Adam?"

His nerves wound tight from the news of Ros' brush with death, stretched one notch tighter. Instincts warred within him; comfort Ruth or defend Ros. He was the head of Counter-Terrorism. One would always reign over the other. It was simple. He needed a team of focused officers functioning at the top of their game. That could only happen if they stood as a legion of one. If allegiance was questioned, the team was lost.

The earlier congestion of the corridor had abated, silence settling around them as if the Grid sensed the seriousness of their conversation. His mouth hardened; the intensity of his face forceful enough to push Ruth back. Blinking, she realised that her last words had crossed a line. Harry leaned into her, his bulk casting a menacing shadow over her face. His voice was low, laden with caution.

"Is this going to be a problem?"

Ruth lowered her eyes, her earlier bravado subdued. Her lids were dusted with blue, but the observation that she was putting more care into her appearance did nothing to deflate his anger. He needed assurance of her loyalty and would not let her leave until he had it. He breathed in through his nose, telegraphing his impatience. She slouched, worn down.

"No," she whispered.

It was not a resounding denial, but he would take it for now. He had dealt with dissension in the past, fractures between the team, but he had always been able to count on her. It was unsettling to contemplate she would behave otherwise.

"I need to know that you will have Ros' back."

She looked at him, eyes wide. He had made a choice.

"I know my job, Harry."

He held her eyes, hoping to fathom her allegiance in their depths. She looked away.

Harry stepped back, not entirely mollified. She stared at his chest, her voice terse.

"I've always done everything you asked of me." She let her words think in. She had gone above the call of duty on numerous occasions. "If you'll excuse me I have work to do."

Ruth took the opportunity to escape and slipped between him and the wall. She walked down the corridor and did not look back.

Harry's palm slapped against the concrete where she had recently stood, and he was left to curse himself. The walls between them appeared insurmountable, and he had just erected one more. God help him if he ever did have to make a choice between those two women. Anger drained, he slumped against the wall. Any headway he had made in rebuilding his private relationship with Ruth had surely been squandered. He would have to find a way to get back to square one.

.

The door was a composite of real wood and manufactured plastic. It looked exactly like every other door in the narrow hallway. All of it meant for anonymity and security. It was a far cry from the welcoming pane of stained glass that adorned her previous home. No glow from a streetlamp, no tattered garden, only the hum of a fluorescent fixture and the tread of a worn carpet. From force of habit, Harry stood outside the scope of the small peephole, a plastic bag in hand. He stared at the metal door knocker, the ring taunting him to take hold of it. There was no need to rush this; it was a marvel that he had made it this far. It was not too late to turn back. Get into his car and go home, find solace in a glass of Glenfiddich. Decisions regarding operational matters paled in comparison to executing the mission he that had set for himself. He should have done it weeks ago. Perhaps it was too late, he fretted, the opportunity for such a meeting had passed. The bag grew heavy, the weight of the handle digging into his palm, reminding him of the contents.

Coward.

She was only a woman, far smaller than he, what could she do to him? He grimaced, knowing the answer. Hobble him with a word, kill him with a look. Taking a fortifying breath, Harry planted himself directly in front of the door and knocked.

The muted scuffle of footsteps sounded from the other side followed by a pause as the occupant assessed the visitor through the security hole. The door did not immediately open. A small ball of dread curled in Harry's stomach. She didn't want to see him. After their conversation in the corridor of Thames House, he could hardly blame her. They had carried on as if nothing had passed between them, professional as ever. No hint that they had scraped at the inside of their souls. The staff on the Grid remained none the wiser, focused on the operation, the safety of Ros paramount. It was the method of containment that had served them in the past and they would continue to follow the same silent agreement. But his appearance at her flat was outside the normal protocol. He had overstepped, encroached on her space.

A deadbolt slid, a latch clicked and the door cracked open only to stop with a thud as the wood strain against a metal chain. She softly cursed. Harry allowed himself a tiny smile. She closed the door and unhooked the chain. The door opened wide enough to reveal her face but not enough for admittance.

"Harry?"

Suprise, confusion and, dared he hope, a bit of pleasure in her voice.

"I hope you don't mind that I came unannounced."

"No, no. It's fine."

Ruth remained with her hand on the door, leaving him to stand in the outer hallway. It was evident that this would not be a campaign of decisive victories. It would be one of tiny skirmishes leading to incremental advancements, surrenders, setbacks, and offers of truce. He raised the bag.

"I have something for you."

She eyed him warily, and just when he thought she would close the door on his face, she stepped back allowing him entrance into the flat. He stepped over the threshold, heralding the small victory. He quickly glanced about the flat, assessing the space for threats. One day he would be able to relax when he entered an unknown space. Furnished with perfunctory items acquired only to make the occupant's stay marginally comfortable, it was singularly uninviting. No books, no nick nacks or personal mementoes. Bare walls. Ruth's head moved with his gaze and she read his thoughts.

"I didn't know how long I would be staying here."

There was no offer of refreshment, no invitation to sit down. The weight of his overcoat became oppressive in the heat of her flat. She gave no indication that she would take it from him. He shifted his stance, realising that he had left the security of known territory, and was now treading on unfamiliar ground. It was her space, albeit lacking in any touches of her personality. None the less, he had given up the home ground advantage. But he was inside the walls, he could not retreat yet.

"I should have come earlier…"

Her eyes narrowed at his words. He had given her a cue, an opening to a dialogue, expecting a few words of encouragement. There were none. The script that he had rehearsed on the drive over vanished and his speech evaporated. Ruth took advantage of his pause.

"I got a call from the housing registry today."

Harry schooled his look of surprise and waited for her to continue.

"Apparently, funds are tight in the Service and they're offloading some properties. This flat being one of them. They're willing to give it to me at a loss rather than paying the fees to maintain it."

"And what did you say?"

"I could hardly say no, could I?."

She waited for him to answer, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He had taught her well. She was using the time tested method of silence to draw a confession out of him. But time had also taught Harry the ability to hide everything. He countered her silence with his own. She broke first.

"You wouldn't know anything about that offer, would you?

He looked at her blankly. "I've nothing to do with housing,"

Her mouth opened as if she were about to challenge him but she prudently refrained from doing so.

"I wouldn't want to think that I was indebted to anyone."

"Naturally."

The wind in the sails of her indignation seeped away, and Ruth looked at him, puzzled. "You didn't come here for that?"

The preconceived path of their conversation thrown out the window, Harry struggled to reroute it back to his initial mission.

"I came about your cats…."

Her head tilted to one side, her expression softening. Ah, that got her attention.

"You have Fidget?"

"No," he hurriedly corrected, realising that he had created an expectation.

She nodded, disappointed. A self-deprecating huff escaped her lips, chastising herself for getting her hopes up.

"That's alright. I only asked you to take them because I didn't want to abandon them. I never thought that you would."

"I had Scarlett at the time…"

"And you hate cats."

At least she remembered something about him. He did not refute her assumption, content to let her believe it was his aversion to cats that had curtailed their adoption. In fact, he had brought the cats to his house, had let them sleep in his bed, but their presence only served as a constant reminder of their mistress, the only warm body that he wanted in his bed. After a few nights, he had fostered them out.

"Jo took them. I'm not sure if she still had them when she…" Harry cleared his throat. " I didn't think it was appropriate to bother the family with inquiries. They seemed intent on cutting off any contact with the Service."

"Of course. That's understandable."

"I do have this though."

Reaching inside his overcoat, Harry pulled an envelope from his breast pocket. He held it out to Ruth. Frowning, she did not immediately take it, her curiosity dampened by doubt. Her once inquisitive nature subdued by the relentless punch of reality. He placed the envelope on the neutral ground of the table. She eyed it as if it were nitrate, ready to burst into flame should she touch it. His jaw clenched; would he ever have the absolute trust of this woman again. With a tentative hand, she reached toward it. She picked it up, intrigued by its weight. She probed the paper with her fingers, finding the outline of an object. She looked at Harry. He gave nothing away. She opened the envelope and extracted a key.

"What's this for?" she quietly asked, suspicious that accepting the key would mean acquiescence to something bigger.

Harry motioned to the envelope. "There's an address in there. A storage facility. After you left, Zaf got into your house. I don't know how he did it, the place was crawling with Special Branch."

A pained expression crossed Ruth's face, whether it was from the memory of Zaf or the idea of strangers sifting through her belongings, Harry did not know.

"He was always very resourceful, wasn't he?"

"It was being monitored and we had to keep up the pretext of your…"

"My death," she finished for him.

Unlike the mention of Jo's death earlier that day, the acknowledgement of Ruth's faked death did not drop like a curtain between them. Acknowledging the deception removed it of its power and a small war crumbled between them.

"There might be a few things in the locker to help you feel more settled in."

"I never thought I would see any of my stuff again. I wonder what sort of things he kept."

"I'm not aware of the specifics."

It was a lie. He had visited the locker, sat among the contents, touched the objects that she had touched. But like the cats, the proximity of her possessions had only caused him pain. He had slammed the storage locker shut and walked away.

The talk of her cats and the prospect of retrieving her old possessions had served to melt her coolness towards him, though not enough to be entirely welcoming. He still wore his coat, the plastic handle of the bag cutting into his fingers. He shifted his grip on the package.

"What's in the bag?" she asked.

"I came across some books and held onto them ..."

Would she deduce that he had indeed scoured the locker? Though determined to leave everything behind, he had still craved a memento of the woman. Unlike cats, books could easily be tucked away, ready to be taken out after a few too many drinks, and lovingly handled in a bout of nostalgia. A sentimental reason; a sign of vulnerability that he had promised himself he would not expose. He ran a finger over his eyebrow, doubting the wisdom of bringing over the cache of material.

"Books?"

She echoed his words like a child, a light coming to her eyes. He was not playing fair. He had gone for her Achilles' heel - books. The previous hesitancy surrounding the envelope had disappeared, her old curiosity returning when it regarded matters of literature. He stepped closer to the table and set the bag on it. She met him halfway; still at arm's length, but close enough for Harry to observe that her eyeshadow was not blue but plum. He took in the dark blue of her jacket; not black, but more structured than the over-sized grey cardigan, perhaps evidence that her salary advancement had been procured. A swath of skin was revealed beneath her collar bone, a shadow hinting at a valley of cleavage. He looked away. Unaware of Harry's scrutiny, Ruth opened up the bag, a slight smile on her face. She pulled out a large volume and traced her finger over the title.

"Religion and Art," she read the title out loud. "I think Tom gave this to me."

Harry bit his tongue, stopping himself from correcting her memory. He had given her the book. Though one could argue that it had not been an outright gift. She had used it as a reference guide, enabling them to link a gruesome execution to the Russian mafia; part of the operation where Danny had gone undercover at Bowman's. It was also the time her perfidy with GCHQ had been exposed. Harry had suggested that she keep the book, ostensibly as a reward, but in reality as a caution. Allegiance was not solely the purview of mobs and crime bosses. He expected it too. It was a warning that if she betrayed the section again her punishment would be far greater than any the Russian mafia would exact. He did not bother to correct her or revisit the hidden meaning behind the book, though he would like to remind her of the value of loyalty. Instead, he concentrated on his mission of peace and motioned to the book.

"There was a fresco in there that you liked."

She flipped through the pages, nodding her head. She found the picture and tilted the book toward him. Light reflected off of the imitation gold leaf.

"Gotti," she reminded him.

Absorbed in the book, the lines on her face disappeared, years falling away. A glimpse of the divine crossed her countenance, a fleeting moment of serenity in a forgotten garden. The power of art to elevate. A chord within Harry responded, vibrating in sympathy. They had found it once, that demi-paradise. But like all who were cast out, he feared they were destined to never find it again.

Ruth closed the book and placed it on the table. She looked at Harry, asking for permission to see the other contents of the bag. Brought back to the moment, Harry nodded. She pulled out a small paperback.

"Persuasion?" She turned the book over in her hands. "This is Adam's."

"You said he leant it to you."

She absently flipped through the pages, the smell of must rising, tickling Harry's nostrils. It brought back the scent of rain, skin damp from humidity, the closed heat of a bus.

"Did you ever read it?" she asked.

"No," he admitted, sheepishly.

"That's right, you don't like Jane Austen either."

Harry pressed his lips together, annoyed all his dislikes were being remembered.

"I never said that…"

Her lips twitched, and he sensed that she was playing with him. She tapped the cover of the book, remembering the story.

" They meet again, Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth, after a number of years."

"And it all works out?"

"In books, yes."

Her head dipped in his direction, though she did not look directly at him. Indeed, happy endings were consigned to the pages of novels and not to the lives of spooks.

Ruth reached into the bag and took out the final volume. She stared at the cover, the title left unsaid. She closed her eyes. He had gone too far. She would think him a manipulative bastard and he very well maybe. It was after all one of his more glaring characteristics, she had called him on it before.

"You gave this to me," she whispered.

Metamorphoses. A book of transformations. All the skins that she had shed. The spook that he had moulded her into, the lost soul who crossed the river, now resurrected. Eurydice to his Orpheus. A shadow in Hades, needing the sun to be whole. If he looked back, she would vanish. He had unwittingly brought the past in a plastic bag, tempting them both to look back. Her face hidden, he could see the skin on her chest growing flush, the heat moving up her neck and into her cheeks. She remembered the book. She remembered where they had been, exactly what they had been doing just before he had given it to her. Her bottom lip moved and she quickly caught it between her teeth. Harry pulled back, an incremental retreat. What exactly had he wanted to accomplish? He had told himself that he had merely wanted to give her back pieces of her past, objects that would help make her whole. He had not wanted to hurt her, to make her cry. But the darker part of his soul spoke, exposing the truth. He wanted to remind her of the connection between them, bind her once more to him, prove that it could not be broken. Unwilling to let time run its course, he had broken his vow and manipulated events. He should apologise for any distress that he had caused her and leave her in peace. He wouldn't. He wanted to see her crumble, collect the pieces as they fell away, and cast her back into the woman she once was. It was all so far removed from his original intent. Step back or go forward. If he reached out and touched her would that break the damn? Would everything come flooding out and he would be there to catch it?

She placed the book back on the table. Harry held his breath. There was no further discussion about the novel, no delving into its history. It was her lack of words that told him she was not ready to visit that part of her past. He watched her, waiting for a sign. Fingers clasped, she held herself together. Walk away. There was no point in breaking the already broken. He straightened his shoulders.

"I should get going."

Her gaze still on her hands, she spoke. "It was very kind of you to bring me these things."

Of all the words that had been used to describe him, Harry had never heard the word kind. It filled him with pleasure, and at the same time a hint of dismay. It was a word used to mollify prospective suitors and relegate them to the outer track. Sensing his withdrawal, she offered a consolation.

"Would you like to stay for a tea or something?"

He looked into her face, hoping to divine a hidden meaning in her words. She looked back at him, clear-eyed. The particular something that he wanted from this woman was the one thing she could not give.

"I think I had better be off. Early start in the morning."

He moved toward the door but before he could reach it she called after him.

"Harry?"

He turned.

"If you do find out who is responsible for offering me this flat would you thank them. I didn't mean to sound ungrateful. It's taken a great weight off of me and I very much appreciate it."

"Some things do work out, don't they?"

Harry cast one last look at the book on the table. He invoked a silent prayer. Let there be one time when a good ending lived outside of a book. He gave her a half-smile and left.

The door closed behind him, the click and clack of locks sounding through the wood. That's right Ruth, turn the key and lock yourself in. He had crossed her threshold once, he would do it again. He let out a sigh of relief as he walked down the corridor, thankful that his meddling in her life had evaded exposure. In the future, he would be more circumspect about assisting her in any way. Stubborn woman.

The night air hit him as he opened the outer door. Walk forward, do not look back. He had returned to her as much of her past as he could; there was little else he could do. It was up to her to use it as she wished.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 - The Fundamental Laws of the Universe

"There's something else."

The phrase, uttered in Harry's presence innumerable times, always elicited a mixture of curiosity and dread. It was the way that she had said it. The import of the words of the could always be measured by the tone of her voice. This time, it was strangely quiet. Obviously, the information was not a casual insight. This was news that needed to be delivered with a delicate touch. She had followed him into his office; trailing at his heels, behaviour that he usually encouraged, but today it annoyed him. He needed a moment to recover from the white-hot information she had just delivered into his hands. He studied the lines of alarmingly large numbers that danced across the paper on the desk, hoping to find and error in her logic. It was an account from DeWitt's, ostensibly belonging to the Home Secretary. Admittedly, Harry was grasping at the last threads of denial. There must be another explanation. The man he knew would never be party to such a scheme. The ability of his analyst to ferret out information was equal parts inspiring and unsettling.

"Do you mean to tell me that there is something else besides the discovery that the Home Secretary has unexplained millions in his account?"

Ruth canted her head in reply. He levelled a gaze at the messenger, silently evaluating the expression on her face. Yes, this was serious. He nodded to the door. Ruth crossed and closed the panel, then returned to his desk. The muscles in his stomach tightened, Harry readying himself for another blow. Ruth paused, but only for a fraction of a second, her need to disseminate the information overcoming her fear of any repercussions.

"It's Sarah Caufield. She was in Basel."

Harry sat back in his chair, the force of the revelation acting like a punch. The second one delivered within the space of minutes. He stared at her as he digested the information.

"Are you sure?" He realised the absurdity of his question and held up his hand. "Don't answer that. I should know by now that you wouldn't tell me unless you were absolutely certain."

"Tariq got us into a CIA server-"

"You hacked the CIA?"

"We do it all the time." She frowned at him, her look asking if he had dropped from the moon. "Walker was about to discover her flight there," she volunteered by way of corroborating evidence. "And that account with six billion - it belongs to the CIA."

"So what you're saying is that my officer is sleeping with an agent of an organisation intent on upending the world order."

"Nightingale," she reminded him.

Harry ran a hand over his face, a gesture that no matter how many times he did it, never served to wipe away the problem. He motioned to the seat in front of his desk. He was not done with his analyst. Ruth hesitated, obviously thinking that she could drop an intelligence bombshell and walk away. No such luck; they were bound by the shared secret of Blake's bank account, and the intel about Sarah Caulfield served as one more tie. Each piece of information that was known only to them created a wall of privilege, keeping her in, keeping others out. He felt no qualms discussing the personal life of his officer with his analyst, it was a continuation of their earlier conversation. He did not reflect on the fact that he would never discuss Ruth's personal life with anyone.

Relenting to Harry's implied demand, Ruth sat down, resigned to donning her old mantle of sounding board.

"I cautioned him about continuing his liaison with her," Harry confided. "He said he could handle it. She was giving him information"

"I don't think he wanted to believe the worst of her. Even after we placed her at the scene of Walker's death."

"No one wants to believe the person that they're in a relationship with is a cold-blooded murderer."

The conversation stalled for a second, Harry regretting the self-defeating nature of his observation. His words seem to have escaped Ruth scrutiny, and she carried on.

"Are they in a relationship though?"

Harry drew back his head, puzzled by the nature of her question. The intimate details of Lucas' affair with the CIA agent was the least of their worries. "I don't think they're discussing cricket scores."

"What I meant was, we don't know how invested he is in her. Maybe it's just a form of release for both of them."

Her hypothesis echoed the questions he had asked of himself, years before when he had weighed the merits of being involved with her. Strange, how her mind had landed on that premise. An attachment to Lucas perhaps? Wishful thinking on her part? Perhaps she had engaged in such a relationship in the past, a brief affair meant for only physical fulfilment. No, he assured himself, she was not that type of woman - though he was certainly that type of man. Hopefully, Ruth had not come to that conclusion about him. He straightened his tie and cleared his throat.

"I think he's emotionally invested in her."

"What are you basing that on?" she asked; a clinician discussing a scientific inquiry.

He had no data to back up his assumption, only instinct. "Like you said, his unwillingness to believe the worst of her."

"Well, that could be pride."

"If he had any pride he would have walked away by now."

"Pride causes us to do foolish things. It makes one hang on when the cause is lost."

"Love can also make fools of us; keep hold of someone when sanity says let go."

She glanced at him, holding his eyes for the length of a heartbeat, a mixture of insight and resignation forming a furrow on her brow. "It is like a madness, isn't it?"

Harry kept his eyes on her, willing her to meet his gaze once again. "Lucas spent many years in prison," he explained. "Its only natural that he would want to seek comfort."

"Yes. but…" She shifted in her seat. "Loneliness can also affect our judgment."

Was she lonely? Lonely like him. Could they not be lonely together?

The leather of his chair creaked as Harry straightened up, the sound pulling them both out of the conversation that was, and was not, about Lucas. Tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, Harry aligned the cuff with the edge of his suit. Enough talk, time for action.

"We'll have this conversation with Lucas."

"We?"

"You can give him the news."

Ruth shook her head in dismay. "Sometimes the messenger gets tired at being shot."

"He might take it better coming from you."

"I highly doubt that. It's pretty devastating. I'm worried about how he is going to take it."

Ruth was worried about Lucas, Harry was worried about Ros. A thread of familial favouritism emerging. It had been the same in his marriage. Jane coddling Graham, and Harry reserving a soft spot for Catherine. It had made his daughter's rebellion against him all the more difficult to bear. Tariq, the youngest; they need not worry about him yet. How easily they had slid back into their workplace partnership.

Harry crossed his arms over his stomach. "You might be right to worry. I'm not confident he's fully recovered from that whole Dasharvin incident. For that matter, I don't know if any of my officers are functioning at the top of their game. Ros is still hell-bent on destroying herself. Tariq may very well be the only stable one left."

The budding rapport that had blossomed between them instantly wilted. Silence, loaded with inference filled the space. Harry closed his eyes. He was walking a tightrope. Ruth had no doubt surmised that she was one of the officers whose mental stability he was worried about, and she would be right. With all that she had been through, it would only be human to crack from the pressure. It was a hall of mirrors. He was expressing concerns about the mental health of his Section to a woman whose own psyche was battered and bruised. What was else he to do? He could not coddle her. In his circle of dwindling confidants, she was all that he had. Ros would always be his lieutenant but Ruth was his advisor. It was a matter of survival, and to that end, he had partitioned Ruth off into three distinct people. The young officer who had stumbled onto the Grid, the helpless hostage that had suffered with him in that room, and the seasoned analyst that now sat before him. He wondered if she had also split herself off as a coping mechanism, and if she had, would they ever be reconciled. There was no time for self-care. He looked at her, his eyes pleading for understanding. He could always count on her to subjugate her personal needs. Ruth took a deep breath.

"Alright," she acquiesced. "We'll tell him together.'

"Thank you."

She sat back in her seat and narrowed her eyes. She knew how he worked. "You have a plan, don't you?"

"Of course. We'll string her along, feed her information, reveal more players." As concerned as Harry was about the mental well being of his officers, the operation always came first. "Get Lucas in here. Might as well pull off the plaster."

Harry took the readout from DeWitt's and slid it between the covers of a file folder. He would deal with that later.

"What about the Home Secretary?"

Ethical to the last, Ruth would not let him brush the brewing controversy to the side. He tapped an impatient finger on the file. She did not know Blake as he did. Governments had run their course, politicians of varying stripes had held office. Harry was certain that Blake was one of the better ones.

"I'll confront him with the information first."

"That might give him the chance to wriggle out of it."

"We don't know what level of government this reaches. We keep it contained."

Not entirely satisfied with his explanation, Ruth rose from her chair. His voice stopped her at the door, and he made reference to a previous conversation.

"Thank you for telling me about Ros."

Ruth paused for a moment and looked at him. "We're a team, aren't we?"

He wasn't sure if she was confirming that the Section was one cohesive unit or that he and she were the team. It did not matter, he would take whatever she handed him.

.

In a day that had seen revelation after stunning revelation, Harry was certain that there was little left that could surprise him. He was wrong. Nothing could have prepared him for an invitation from Ruth. A drink? Of course. He did not think twice before answering. He hid his surprise lest it be interpreted incorrectly and the invitation retracted. The meddling gods of world events attempted to derail their plans, but Harry for once in his career, revolted. Everything would still be on his desk in the morning. The money syphoned from the DeWitt account into Pakistan, Nightingale, the Sara Caufield mess. He would be the first to admit that the resignation of the Home Secretary had left him reeling. Ruth understood, she saw his frustration and dismay. It may well be an act of sympathy, the offer of a drink, but Harry didn't care. He would be a fool to let the opportunity slip away, have it be crushed beneath the weight of duty. He was the Head of the Section, delegating tasks was expected. There was no imminent national threat looming, his presence on the Grid was not mandatory. It took surprisingly little argument to persuade Ruth of the logic of his decision.

A wall of sound battered his senses as they stepped through the door of the pub. It was not as quiet as he remembered. He had come to realise that most things were not as he remembered. His ears filled with the roar of laughter and loud voices. Glasses raised, lager sloshing, money passing hands. Everything right with the world, none of the revellers the wiser at the near-collapse of the economy. They could all thank him in the morning. Ruth stood beside him, hands hidden in the pockets of her trench coat. He turned to her, raising his voice to be heard above the din.

"It's rather noisy."

"We're here now."

Refusing to let his dream of a quiet conversation with her in a secluded booth be dashed, Harry looked for a way to salvage the evening and subtly convince her to seek another venue. It was of no consequence to him if they trekked to a different pub.

"I don't see any empty seats."

"How about over at the bar."

He considered her suggestion. Changing location at this point ran the risk of dispelling the evening, he dared not chance it. Deferring to her wishes, he pursed his lips and motioned for her to proceed him. Ruth shouldered her way through the crowd with surprising ease for someone so small. Harry begrudgingly followed along behind her. Using the bar for leverage, she hoisted herself up onto a stool. His legs slightly longer, Harry hitched his trousers and slid onto the seat beside her. A young man looking barely out of school wiped off the bar in front of them and asked for their order. Harry deferred to Ruth.

"I'll have a pint, please."

Blinking, Harry took a moment to digest her order and then turned to the bartender. "Same."

The man nodded and stepped away, setting to work at pulling their draughts.

"I didn't peg you as a pint person," Harry idly commented.

"Didn't think a glass of wine would do the job."

With the synchronisation of clocks, they both retrieved their mobiles from their respective pockets. Harry glanced down at the display. No messages. He silently prayed that would be the case for the next few hours. He placed his phone on the counter and Ruth slid hers alongside it. The mobiles lay nestled together between the coasters, plastic cases lying beside each other, his phone enjoying a greater intimacy than its owner.

Beside him, Ruth struggled with her coat, the confines of the bar hindering her movement. Without thinking, Harry reached over and gently pulled the sleeve down allowing her to free her arm. He took a moment to make sure the coat was draped securely over the back of her barstool. It may be the hated grey but it looked to be all she had. She gave him a quick nod of thanks. Taking his cue from her, Harry removed his overcoat. He loosened the knot of his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. Formality had retired for the evening. The barman brought their drinks and placed the glasses before them. He stood, waiting. Harry looked at Ruth, and she shrugged her shoulders.

"We'll run a tab," Harry informed the bartender. He picked up his glass and raised it to her in a toast. "To everything and to nothing," he proposed.

Ruth lifted her glass in answer. "To something else."

The glass paused at Harry's lip as he considered her words. She was referencing her penchant for inconvenient information. Only that and nothing more, he convinced himself. He took a large swig of the lager, draining a fair portion of the glass. Ruth blew off a layer of suds and then took a similarly large drink. Harry lifted an eyebrow, momentarily concerned that she might have a higher capacity for alcohol than him and he would find himself under the table. There had only been one occasion where they had shared a drink - over their dinner date. No, that couldn't be, having known her for so many years there must have been other occasions. Maybe it was just her standing in his office while he drank that had him confused. A dab of foam remained on her bottom lip. His gaze dropped to her mouth. With a self-conscious thumb, she wiped the foam away.

"This reminds me of Uni."

"And here I thought you spent all of your time in libraries."

"I did manage to get out once in a while." She gave him an impish grin.

He had not seen her smile in such a long time. There had been an era when her enthusiasm and demeanour had grated on his nerves but now he longed for those qualities to resurface. Perhaps after another pint that would happen.

A television monitor hung over the bar. Harry's eyes were drawn to it like a spectator at a car accident. Though the volume was muted, the picture flashing across the screen was enough to tell the story. Blake, surrounded by a gaggle of reporters, the chyron heralding his spectacular downfall. Ruth watched along with him.

"You'd think we'd be able to leave it for a second."

"We have to find out who is behind this."

The sensitivity of the subject demanded that he lower his voice. Elbows on the bar, Ruth leaned in closer in an effort to hear him above the noise of the crowd.

"Do you still think he was set up?"

"Wishful thinking on my part?"

She shrugged her shoulders in reply. At what point had she become so jaded with the world. Harry continued.

"Whoever it is, they also want to throw a shadow on the Service. There is someone in our back yard and we need to weed them out."

"If it's on our side, they've probably buried it quite deep."

Head bent to hear her muted voice, Harry inhaled the scent of her shampoo. Beneath the perfume lay another note, one he had almost forgotten. Warm and dark. At that moment, he did not mind the seating at the bar nor the fact that her shoulder brushed against his.

"Do you think Sarah was trying to recruit Lucas?" Ruth proposed. " Bring him into the organisation?"

"Possibly. Some sort of honey trap." He sipped his drink. "Do you think there's anything to the name - Nightingale."

"A most musical, most melancholy bird."

Harry frowned at her.

"Coleridge," she explained. "You're asking if I think its some sort of code. I have no idea."

His glass nearly drained, the tension releasing properties of alcohol taking effect, Harry leaned in closer his mouth near her ear. "If anyone can find the answer, it's you."

"Your faith in me is encouraging." She gave him a conspiratorial smile.

The second smile of the evening. It was not forgiveness for everything, his comment about the mental state of his team hovered in the background, but Harry took it as a sign of a sustainable truce.

"What are the chances of us talking about a subject other than work?" she asked.

"Slim to none."

Harry drained his glass and glanced over at hers. She was well on the way to finishing her pint. Perhaps she was taking a page from his playbook and using drink as a coping strategy. Well, she was drinking with him; he was not about to draw attention to the matter. She had asked if there was any other subject they could discuss, a hint that she was not ready to end the evening. He held up his glass in question.

"Another?"

"I'll regret it if you wake me with a redflash in the middle of the night."

He kept his face immobile, hiding thoughts of more appealing ways of waking her in the middle of the night.

The bartender returned. Harry motioned to his glass.

"I'll have another pint."

"Just a half for me."

"Lightweight," Harry muttered under his breath.

Ruth yelled after the bartender.

"Make it a full."

She settled back on her stool, a look of defiance on her face. Harry suppressed a smile. She was so easy to bait. Give her a challenge and she would rise to it every time.

"I'll wager that you can't last ten minutes without talking about work."

"What will you wager?"

"A morning off."

"I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

Harry took a long pull of his lager. A late morning lying in, he could imagine plenty of things he would do with her. He set his glass down. Limit the alcohol, curb the thoughts. He struggled to remember the pact he had made with himself. Keep it professional. Think of it as having a drink with Ros. But the woman beside him was nothing like Ros. Ruth took a sip of her beer, foam gathering on her lip once more. She flicked out her tongue and licked it off. If he did not know better, he would think it an enticement.

Raucous laughter erupted behind them. They both turned to find the source. A group of young men sat at a table, wearing various states of business attire, passing around overflowing pitchers of ale. One fellow glanced in their direction. He gave a crooked smile, no doubt aimed at Ruth. Harry shifted his stool, bringing it closer to his analyst.

"And what will you forfeit if you lose," he asked, voice low, sounding for all the world like he was proposing some sort of Faustian bargain. Though he was certain she had already traded her soul for knowledge.

"Oh, I won't lose."

Cheeky bravado. Evidently, her exile had taught her the benefits of risk. He was tempted to name his price. Dinner. It was on the tip of his tongue but he held back. The evening was going surprisingly well, he would not undermine it by throwing the spanner of his unrequited longing into the works. She reached out and took his wrist, turning it so she could read the face of his watch. The intimacy of the gesture caught him off guard. It was a counter move to the invasion of her space by showing up at her flat. A breach of unspoken protocol. No touching. She could just have easily checked the time on her mobile. His heart thudded and he was thankful that the band of his watch covered his pulse. How quickly the tables had turned from his earlier confidence that he held sway over her. Did she know the effect that she had on him? He had never thought of her as a tease, his analyst was too sophisticated for that, but he had in the past seen her flirt. Albeit, not with him.

Having noted the time, Ruth released his hand.

"Let's see..." She tapped a finger on her lips. "I was thinking of joining a choir."

"Libraries and choirs," he noted archly. "You are a rebel."

"It's not a choir per se," she amended. "It's called a scratch. There's no rehearsal to speak of, you just go there on the day and sing with a bunch of other people."

"So its a choir."

She flashed Harry a brief look of censure and then she continued."It's more than that. I did it once years ago."

He tried to think back to when this would have happened. He was reminded of the fact that he did not know everything about her life. In fact, there were a few years when he had not been so possessive of her, though he could barely remember such a time. As a companion to the thought, his arm slid over the back of her chair. She gave no indication that it bothered her.

"Surely, you must need some training."

"I read music, Harry. I've grade eight piano and violin."

Of course, she did. The depth of her skills would never cease to amaze him. Custom could not stale her infinite variety.

The muscle in his knee twinged, telling him he needed to stretch his leg. He shifted in his seat, disturbing the folds of her skirt, his knee brushing against her thigh. She did not pull away. He moved in closer, subtly testing the boundaries of her personal space, her touch to his wrist emboldening him. He let his knee rest against hers with a bit more pressure. He was certain that he felt pressure in return.

"There's something about singing with a group of people," she explained, her voice soft and breathy. "It's very satisfying."

He regarded her from beneath hooded lids. "You need to get out from behind your desk." Get out from whatever you're hiding behind, he silently added.

"We know how well that goes." She gave a small laugh of self-deprecation. She took a nervous sip of her lager. "The psychologist recommended that I do something that I used to enjoy."

Harry was momentarily stunned at her revelation. "You're seeing a psychologist?"

"You told me to."

That was true, but she had never heeded his advice in the past. He refrained from pointing that out. Curiosity overcame him. Perhaps he was one of the things she had enjoyed in the past, hence the reason for her invitation.

"What else did you talk about?

That's rather private, isn't it?"

He wanted to ask if she talked about him. Did she paint him as a villain, the unfeeling Section Head who was willing to sacrifice a boy? On the other hand, he didn't want to know how she spoke of him, better to remain ignorant in that respect.

"Is this verging on work?"

"No, I would say it's still personal," she whispered.

Hesitant eyes looked at him and then looked away. She was struggling with something, though he could not fathom what. Dark lashes lay against her cheeks, freckles along her nose, tiny imperfections making her beauty all the more extraordinary. A lock of hair curled at the crook of her neck. Warm and dark. He gave himself over to the moment, letting desire wash over him. He could not voice it, would not act, but surely she could sense it.

"Has it been ten minutes yet?" she asked quietly.

"No," he replied, his voice husky with the lie. He knew that if he said yes their time would run out and the little bubble that they shared would burst. He would keep her in the pub sitting beside him.

"I think it has," she admonished softly.

"In that case, you win."

She would always win.

"I'll collect at a later date."

He had known that the evening would end, but he could think of no other way to stretch it out. He brought himself back, draining his glass, asking for strength. He signalled the bartender to bring the bill. Ruth fumbled with her coat searching for her change purse. Harry easily extracted a few notes from his wallet and handed them to the bartender.

"I can get my own-"

"Think of it as part of the wager," harry suggested assuaging her pride.

Ruth stood up from the stool, wobbling slightly. Harry reached out to steady her. He did not immediately let go of her arm.

"This was nice." She leaned into him. "I haven't had a drink with a friend in such a long time."

He let go of her arm. Friends? Is that what they were? He should be grateful that they had moved on from antagonistic survivors, to colleagues, and now to friends. But he was not.

They remained close, almost touching, her eyes level with the crooked knot of his tie. The pulse at his throat throbbed, the sound of blood filled his ears. His eyes fell to the opening of her coat, the top of her shirt dipping in a gentle curve, her chest moving with shallow breaths. Two people at a bar; no one would think twice if he pulled her in. She looked up at him, her voice quiet.

"You never said what you wanted from me if I lost."

The answer was in his eyes, he knew that she could read it, but he would never admit it.

"You need a better coat," he advised her gruffly. "That one won't keep you warm."

He roughly pulled the lapels of her coat closed with a paternal hand. Out of sight out of mind. Confusion played across her face. He turned away.

A sharp wind bit at his cheeks, and Harry drew up the collar of his coat. Ruth shivered in her lighter coat. She should listen to him. He did not ask for her permission, but stepped to the kerb and hailed a taxi. As if awaiting the summons, a car pulled up. He opened the door for the woman who was not his date. Ruth hesitated by the open door, delaying her ride.

"Are you getting in?" she asked.

"I'll call for my car."

She did not move, but stood, waiting, not daring to look him directly in the eye. Her hand rested on the top of the door next to his. Small and cold, lacking gloves. He could easily take it and join her in the taxi. An evening of signals, strange and mystifying, he could not be sure of her intentions. The effects of the lager lingered, a slight buzz remaining. She was far smaller than he. She would be feeling it more. It was a door through which he could walk.

"Good night, Ruth."

She nodded with almost indiscernible relief. He had made the decision for both of them.

"Good night, Harry."

She quickly took her seat in the cab and he closed the door. Harry rapped a knuckle on the driver's window. He thrust a wad of bills into the man's hand and told him to get her home safely. The car pulled away, and Harry stood, watching it disappear into the night.

Pride and love and alcohol. They all made fools of men.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7- Language is Like a Woman; Thing of Beauty, Many Shades

The envelope was marked confidential, though it did not contain secrets of national importance. The information inside was of a more personal nature, the revelation of which could have a far more damaging effect than the leaking of a state secret. Harry's name stared back at him, penned in bold, black letters. The flap was tied down; red thread encircling the metal clasps in a loop of infinity. Never-ending, reoccurring, unbroken. His hand hovered over the string. A rare twinge of misgiving halted the action. Decisiveness had always been his defining trait, a commitment to resolve in any situation, but this deed gave him pause. Did he really need to know the contents of the envelope? It was not too late to leave it unopened and send it back through the intraoffice mail. Experience had taught him to temper his curiosity, but he had also learned that knowledge was a defence, allowing him to anticipate possible scenarios, prepare for unexpected fallout. He felt the walls of his office peering over his shoulder. They knew his motivation for requesting the information. He had made the decision within their precinct. He could not hide his thoughts. He wanted to know about her.

Harry moved his shoulders, shrugging off their judgement. Open it, better to know now then find out when everything had fallen apart. He unthreaded the red string. Three folders slid out. Myers, North, Evershed. The psychological evaluations of his team. He did not expect the files to give up the innermost thoughts of his personnel, the sanctity of their sessions would be preserved, but as the Section Head, he had every right to study their assessments. It was Ruth who had planted the seed of his investigation, during their drink where she had revealed that she had heeded the psychologist's advice. One might think that the other two files were a cover, a ruse to get the one file that he really wanted. He dismissed the idea. Ros and Lucas had both experienced traumatic events, it was entirely within his purview to ascertain their mental health. It was another lesson he had learned. He harkened back to Tom, the slow crumbling of the man, wrought by forces inside and out. Then there was Adam, brash and cocky, taken down by internal demons and the struggle to continue with the job at great personal sacrifice. Each man had reached a point where they snapped. It was only a matter of time before one member of his team reached a similar crossroads. It was only a question of which one. The signs may be similar, the symptoms the same, but the final breaking point would be different.

The walls silently laughed at his excuses. Harry could argue his reasoning all that he wanted, the truth was he wanted to peel back the layers of his analyst. He had done it once before, he could do it again. He had delved into her file years ago, probing for possible emotional wounds, desperate to find a nugget of knowledge that could be weaponised. He had taken an event from her past, corrupted it into something dark. Angry though she was that he had used her file, she had in the end complied, distorted her past relationship with her stepbrother and taken down Angela Wells. They had stood together in the shadowy twilight of emotional manipulation and it had been exhilarating. At the time, he had thought nothing of doing it, the building had been under siege. If the situation warranted it, he would do it again. It was what the job demanded of them. The walls closed in, whispering in his ear. There was no emergency this time, no imminent threat within or without. He was doing this for purely selfish reasons. He did not deserve to know her emotional scars, the infliction of which he had been a party to. He had used them so cavalierly before. The light blinked on his desktop phone; the ringer was silenced, he would let it go to voicemail. The light continued to flash, a warning. Read the file at your own peril. To do so, to have such intimate knowledge without consent, was a breach of trust, it would cement him in the role of manager. If she were to ever find out his trespass, she had every right to reject him. He ignored the warning and his better judgment. He picked up her file and opened it.

His eyes skimmed over the psychologist's assessment; words jumping out at him. Situational depression, anxiety, insomnia. A discontinued prescription for sleeping aids. Harry blinked at the words, the muscle of his heart becoming a fist, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. Anger, sorrow, despair. He had not known the depths of her trauma. She had sat at the desk outside of his window, functioning, performing her duties. She had hidden it well, or conversely, was successfully working her way through some of the issues. He flipped the page, scanning lines that suggested coping strategies, finding pursuits that she used to enjoy. His eyes alighted on the words that most fascinated and repelled him. It was what he was looking for. It was a summary of the incident with Mani. He read on, a different set of words greeting him. Helplessness, survivor guilt, a reference to an unnamed man. Harry's heart stopped.

"I'm fine."

Her voice shattered his concentration. Harry's head snapped up. Ruth had entered his office, moving on cat feet, silent, unannounced. How long had she been standing there? The beat of his heart restarted at double the speed, irrational panic coursing through his veins. She had discovered his malfeasance and was there to call him out. He closed the file, covering the name on the tab with his hand. He forced his voice to remain neutral.

"No one is saying that you aren't."

"I don't know what she told you."

"It was purely procedural."

"We are playing with a boy's life and giving him no say in it."

Harry's shoulders eased with relief. She was not referring to the files that he was reading. She was talking about the young man, Ashouk, the mole in Dhillon's cell. It had been decided that they would keep him embedded with no guarantee that his cover had not been blown. Under the guise of straightening out his suit cuff, Harry stealthily slid her file underneath the other two. He focused his full attention on her. The findings in the file remained in his thoughts. He must be gentle with this woman.

"It was right of you to raise that concern."

"I think any functioning adult with half a conscience would do the same."

Harry pursed his lips at the inference that his team, and by association him, were in desperate need of a conscience. Seeing the unintended interpretation of her words, Ruth backtracked.

"You know what I mean."

"They may be boys but they're old enough to carry out a terror plot."

"They're seventeen, Harry. He can't make a decision like this. What did you know when you were seventeen?"

He was certain that as a young man of seventeen he had known far more about the world than she had at that age.

"That was a different time. The internet gives people a window into corners we never imagined."

"What if it were your son that was asked to do this?"

"I don't think it bolsters your argument to bring my son into it."

What she knew of his son, he had no idea, though he was certain she had combed through his files just as he had skimmed through hers. Their covert attempts to discover the inner workings of each other minds highlighted their inability to actually communicate in person.

"The boy is already vulnerable. He's caught between two worlds. He's thrown in with them because he had no other place to go."

"Ruth, I can't debate this with you. If we had any other option, we would explore it."

Her mouth drew into a line, unwilling to accept his answer. Harry leaned forward on his desk, his voice soothing.

"It's understandable that what is happening here may echo…." He chose his words carefully, "Certain events that happened in your past."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "This has no relation to what happened in my past."

Harry inhaled, worried that he may have inadvertently tipped his hand, exposing his knowledge of her file.

"Past experiences affect our judgements."

"I don't need to be treated with Kidd gloves."

Harry blinked at her assertion. He was sure he had done nothing of the sort. In fact, he had counselled himself out of coddling her on a number of occasions. His mind stalled as he attempted to reconcile the woman in the file with the woman that stood before him. She was a far cry from the woman who had stood in the briefing room a few short months ago, shaken by the fact that a member of the Bendorf group had been shot in cold blood.

"I don't want anyone to think I need special treatment."

"And I have granted you none. I merely thanked you for reminding us of our humanity."

"If you make allowances for me, it could undermine my credibility."

"Your intelligence gathering skills were never in doubt."

I don't want to be seen as...weak. When I said I had forgotten what it was like here…

Harry held up his hand. "Ruth you don't need to-"

"I just want to be clear."

"You have made yourself perfectly clear."

"Good."

She remained in his office, eyes defiantly locked on his. He held her gaze, giving nothing away. Seconds ticked by as he waited for her to leave, but it was apparent that she was not done with their meeting. It could have been a trick played by the light of his office, but Harry was certain the colour of her eyes changed as she studied him. The clear blue of certainty transitioning to a darker hue of some sort of mystical understanding. What had she divined? It was entirely unnerving. Eager to have her gone before she really did discover something, Harry rearranged the files in front of him signalling that he had more important matters at hand. The first two letters of her last name peaked out from beneath the folders. The tell-tale heart of espionage. He tucked it away and returned to his normal dismissive tone.

"If you don't want to appear that I am giving you any special treatment you had better get back to work."

"Right," she agreed.

She did not leave, but stood, watching him.

"Is there something else," he asked mildly, without looking up.

There was a pause, a moment in time long enough to compound his apprehension that she had seen the file and was going to confront him about it.

"No," she said quietly. "There's nothing else."

She left just as silently as she had entered. Harry watched through the window of his office as she returned to her desk. She sat down, taking a folder from Tariq, giving him a smile in return. Harry frowned. He was not the only one who knew how to wear a mask. Had there been something else that she had wanted to discuss? Had his abrupt dismissal of her quashed any further conversation?

He had been given a reprieve. He would not delve any further into her psychological profile. He picked up the three files and slid them back into the envelope. With a meditative hand, he rewound the red string back over the clasps. Perhaps it was better to keep everything hidden away.

.

It all happened without planning or forethought. He had casually offered her a lift home, she had casually accepted. If he were a reflective man, Harry could conclude that overthinking and manipulation did not always result in the desired outcome; that sometimes decisions made in the spur of the moment had surprisingly pleasant results. Had not the exact thing happened a few evenings before? There had been no embarrassment on his part, no hesitation on hers, and no one on the Grid had given them a second glance as they exited through the pods. A stressful day had turned into a longer nigh;, he did not want to think of her going home alone. The revelation that the new commander of Pakistan's military was in the pocket of Nightingale had forced the team to clock up extra hours, time lost monitoring and evaluating the coordinated attacks in the Netherlands and America. Harry took little consolation in the fact that they had managed to thwart the two cells on British soil. It was all a game of moving pieces and they still had no clear idea of all the players. The hour was late, it made perfect sense that he would want to see his analyst home safely.

The car glided along with the late-night traffic, the city surprisingly alive at such an hour. The glowing dome of streetlights held back the blanket of complete darkness. Did they ever tire of holding back the shadows? Harry appreciated the security that such lighting afforded but mourned the days when one could look up and see the stars. Beauty sacrificed to vigilance.

"So you don't trust him." Ruth's voice broke through his thought's.

Their conversation had strayed onto the appointment of the new Home Secretary, Andrew Lawrence. Harry had confided his misgivings to Ros, it was only natural that he would do the same with Ruth.

"He's young."

"That's not a particularly strong reason to distrust him."

"It's all too perfect. Like when you say a legend is too good. They framed Blake, got him out and installed a man of their own."

"Is it so impossible to believe that he attained the position on his own merit."

Harry glanced at her from the side of his eye. "It's instinct."

She sighed. "Sometimes hard evidence is needed."

"Are you telling me that I should discount thirty years of experience?"

"The past can affect our judgement." She parrotted his words from earlier that day.

"Your mockery is duly noted."

"I'm just saying if we are entirely focused on one thing we may miss other clues."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. The first tenant of spycraft is misdirection. Lawrence could very well be on our side."

Harry gave a small grunt, signalling his disagreement with her comments. Silly woman, the first rule was trust no one. Facts may work for analysis but the only thing that could possibly calculate the variable of human behaviour was instinct. Harry was not about to overrule his gut.

An informal truce called, they fell into a comfortable silence, both of them too tired to argue the merits of their specific logic. Exhausted though he was, he did not want to return to his cold house. His mouth watered for a decent malt. Could he persuade her to have another drink with him? Ruth raised her hand and covered her mouth, unsuccessfully hiding a yawn. Another night perhaps. His hands relaxed on the steering wheel and he eased back into his seat. Was this to be the new normal for them? A companionable drive home after an exhausting day. The conversation revolving work, sifting through operational problems, concluding with a retreat to their separate dwellings. The arrangement had a certain appeal. But it would be settling and he was not a man who settled for less when more could be had. As the traffic thinned, demanding less of his attention, a plan formed in his mind. He could continue to offer her rides home, they would become more comfortable with each other. He might have a problem that required further discussion. She might invite him in. He would refuse the first time. If there was a second invitation, he would consider it. There would be coffee or tea, perhaps something stronger. He would lose track of time. There might be an off-handed gesture, a reassuring touch, just as her fingers had brushed his earlier. An awkward turn, bodies coming together, lips meeting.

"You didn't signal," she admonished.

Harry pulled his thoughts back. "I never do."

Absorbed in his daydream, he had forgotten to indicate his lane change, but he would never admit that.

"What happened to your other car?" she asked.

"The Service recommended for security purposes that a drive I more substantial vehicle."

There was no immediate response to his explanation. He glanced over at his companion. Her face was turned away from him as she gazed out the passenger side window. The vehicle was large and she was small in the seat. His mind wandered back to the file. It was his duty to look after her. She shifted and rubbed her hand thoughtfully over the dashboard.

"I was thinking of buying a car," she mused.

"A car?" He could not hide his surprise. "What for?

"I had one in Cypress, I think I got spoiled by the convenience."

Cypress rolled easily from her lips, no weight attached to the name. Harry took it as a good sign. For some reason, the idea of her driving a car perturbed him and he felt compelled to dissuade her from the notion.

"It's more of a hassle than a convenience. Traffic is a nightmare, parking is impossible.

"Says the man who is not a slave to the tube schedule."

Harry's fingers curled around the steering wheel, the reason for his irritation coming forward. With her words, his plan for the subtle incursions into her space had evaporated with the speed at which it had formed. If she owned a car she would not be dependent on him. Not that she was, but he wanted her to be. A car signified autonomy. It threatened the power dynamic. He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel cautioning himself to be reasonable. After all, the tube held certain memories for her. She might be safer in her own vehicle. He searched for a way to be more encouraging of her plan.

"If you need any help, I could come with you."

"Why would I need help?"

Harry opened his mouth, the words coming out before he had time to evaluate their fallout. "You're a woman."

"And therefore defenceless against car dealers?" she asked indignantly.

He had put his foot squarely in it. "That's not what I meant," he protested, knowing that it was too rectify the situation.

"I've done my research, I can hold my own."

"I'm sure you can," he conceded. God help the salesman that came up against her. He focused on turning onto a side street, hoping that the conversation had concluded.

"It's a ways off anyway," she assured him. "I'm still trying to get my finances in order."

"Is everything alright?" Realising that she could once again take umbrage with his words he quickly added, "In that regard."

"I wasn't asking for your help."

Harry pursed his lips in defeat. He had already put one foot in it, the second one wasn't going to make much difference. Stubborn woman. Resistant to any form of help from him.

"Turn right here," she indicated with a wave of her hand.

"Yes, I know. I've been here a few times."

She looked at him, gauging his words, suspicion showing. To her knowledge, there had only been one time that he come to her flat, the night he had dropped off her books. She was not aware of the other times that he had sat outside her house. If asked, he could not explain why he had driven to her flat but stopped short at knocking on her door. Cold feet, loneliness, a drink too many. He took control of the conversation.

"Tomorrow, I need you to see what you can dig up on Lawrence."

Thankfully, she asked for no further explanation of the number of times he had been to her house. It was uncharacteristic of her. He needed to be careful. She had no doubt squirrelled his lapse of judgement away, ready to be taken out and used at a more opportune moment.

He pulled up in front of her building. She released her seatbelt and gathered up her bag. There would be no lingering tonight.

"Thank you for the ride."

"My pleasure."

Her movement stilled and she looked at him. It was the way the word had rolled from his lips. Pleasure. Seemingly innocuous, but evoking a host of images, vivid, enticing, but lost to both of them. Their lives were bereft of pleasure. There might be the fleeting gratification in alcohol, a book, chocolate buttons but there was nothing to satisfy the void. Finding substance for the soul by losing oneself in another. They had found it once. A meeting of minds underpinned by attraction, longings satisfied. Since her return, he had abstained. He was certain that she had too. Her eyes changed, turning into the dark mystery of unfathomable thoughts. Did her thoughts match his? The muscle of his heart contracted once again. A pressure far more intense then what he had experienced when reading her file. An ache formed in his solar plexus, words wanting to come out. His breath matched hers, following the same tempo. He inhaled, drawing her in. She moved, almost infinitesimal, mirroring him. What was this pull that she exerted over him? This cord that he could not sever. A thread fragile and strong, stretching between, wound in a loop of infinity. Her eyes questioned him, but he had no answer. A look of sadness crossed her face.

"A person is not a file," she whispered.

She knew. Like the walls of his office, she knew his thoughts, that if she spoke of the psychologist he would not be able to resist delving into her file. He should know better than to think that information could enter or leave the Grid without her knowledge. Harry kept his face immobile, refusing to overtly confirm her suspicions. He wanted to believe that her words were a reassurance, that what was in her file was only one part of her psyche. He suspected that she had another meaning in mind. By looking into her file, he had betrayed her trust. It left her open and vulnerable while he was still hidden and closed. Power had its price. There would be no invitation into her flat that night, and he may have forfeited any such invitation in the near future.

Ruth opened the door and stepped out of the vehicle. He watched as she walked up the short path and found her key. It was the gentlemanly thing to do. She entered the building but he did not immediately leave. He waited, though he wasn't sure for what reason. The light came on in her window, he knew which flat she occupied. It blinked off and then on. It was a signal that he had once asked of her, to indicate that she was safe. It pleased him that she remembered. He sighed at the loss of the evening and shifted his car into drive. There were numbers on his phone, other women to whom he could turn. He was not a monk. They touched on the subject in their discussion with Lucas, the need for physical release. He knew it would be futile and empty, the act instantly regretted once it was complete. She was the only one who could satisfy him. He was destined to live the punishment of Tantalus. Perpetually hungry, fruit within reach, never to be tasted. He drove away, resigned to his fate.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 - Seeds Grow from the Ashes

Suit jacket abandoned in his office, Harry strode down the corridor to the briefing room. Scattered phrases of 'shots fired' and 'asset down' ricocheted in his head, along with the dire images that such words conjured. He had been summoned at the tail end of the meet, the master comms headset held to his ear, voices talking over one another, time standing still. His voice broke through the chatter, strong and clear, demanding confirmation that Ruth was unharmed. An eternity of seconds ticked by before Lucas assured him that she was in the clear. The quest for information had been paramount, Pakistan and India were on the brink of nuclear war, he had been focused on finding out China's role in Nightingale. Without thought, he had sent her off to meet the asset, showing little regard for her safety. A known informant, a public place, conducted under the surveillance of Lucas and his team. It was a low-level meet; it should have gone off without a hitch. Whoever these people were, they were confident enough to carry out a brazen assassination in broad daylight without any concern for the collateral costs. His pace quickened, driven by the need to see for himself that she was not damaged. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly when he arrived at the door of the briefing room. Ruth sat alone, her head bowed, shoulders slumped. In a normal world, he would abandon protocol and walk up to her, take her in his arms, and affirm with his hands that no part of her was broken. But his world was far from normal. Decorum prevailed, dissuading him from any grand gesture. He reached for a chair and pulled it out, taking the seat beside her.

"What happened?"

Ruth raised her head, blinking as if roused from sleep. "Heng is dead."

"Did you see anything?"

"No. I already told Lucas. It happened so fast, it came out of nowhere."

"Are you alright?" It was purely a cursory question, he could see no visible damage.

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Ros is checking possible leads on assassins. Lucas should be here any minute."

"Did you get anything from Heng?"

"Warring factions within the party. Hawks against doves. A schism that Nightingale is trying to exploit."

She picked up her pen, the gesture that usually served to channel her nervous tension. This time, it did not provide an outlet, instead, it exposed what had not been readily visible. Her hand shook and she placed the pen back on the table. Harry assessed her with a clinical eye. The voice of what was left of his humanity sounded in the back of his head, and all thought of managerial propriety fell away. They were alone in the briefing room, no one would see them. He could for a moment cross that thin line that stood between the professional and the personal. He would not be amiss in offering a gesture of comfort. He placed his hand over hers. Her skin was unnaturally cold.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

She did not answer but stared at his hand as it rested on hers. The front of her jacket moved with shallow breaths. He wanted to believe that it was from the effect that he had on her, but knew otherwise. A warning bell sounded. The echo of tipping points past, the spot where the psyche cracked and he could do nothing to pull his officer back from the edge.

"Ruth?" he leaned in closer. "Look at me."

She raised her head, eyes unfocused, her pupils incredibly large. Shock. His hand reflexively curled around hers, his arm coming to rest on the back of her chair. There would be no embrace, he could not enfold her in his arms as he would have liked, but he could surround her. His protection may have come too late. He silently berated himself. He had sent a desk spook into the field, forgetting the fact that this particular analyst had a very poor track record with outside operations. He needed to bring her back. He did not press her, realising that his usual gruff platitudes might not work. He was woefully ill-equipped to deal with this situation. He needed a Ruth to look after his Ruth. He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand, veins becoming prominent, an indication that his ministrations were warming her up. Under his touch, the muscles of her arm relaxed and her head leaned closer to his, her body searching for comfort even though her mind said she needed none. She moved her lips and he bent his head to hear.

"I've seen it on a screen, heard shots on a headset, but I've never been a part of it." Her lip trembled and she inhaled a shaky breath as she relived the scene. "His body just collapsed onto me. His life was gone in an instant."

Between her words, Harry heard the notes of self-recrimination. A circle of thought that led to nowhere. He would not let her travel down that spiral.

"He was the one who asked for the meet. He knew the risks."

"We should have picked a different location."

"You are not responsible.

"He was just about to tell me something important." She shivered, standing on the edge of her grave. "When I heard the shot, I thought it was meant for me."

Harry would not confess that he thought the same. That in the seconds between his demands for her status and the confirmation of her safety, he had fallen into despair at the thought of having lost her once again. Over the years, he had nursed a theory regarding close calls but he stopped himself from divulging it to her. Every operation had one near miss, the event where a member of his team sidestepped death. It had just happened. It was unfortunate that it had involved her, but he wanted it to be a sign that they had all dodged a bullet. It would it no way decrease their vigilance but he wanted to believe that they would exit the operation unscathed. He was still left with a quandary. Fate had returned her to him, he needed to be more cautious of exposing her to unnecessary risks. His hand formed a fist on the back of her chair, struggling with the desire to protect her and the pressing necessity to use her. He uncurled his fingers.

"You need to go home."

"What?" She blinked at him, his words like cold water. "No, I'm fine."

She tried to pull her hand away. He kept a firm grip on it.

"You have just witnessed a man's death."

It was at a test. To sound her true mettle. He would not hold it against her if she needed a break.

"Would you send Ros home?"

He raised an eyebrow. She was not Ros. "If the situation called for it I would make the same decision."

Her mouth drew into a line. She knew that he wouldn't. On another occasion, he had shown no qualms in that regard, cajoling her to stay on far past the point of mental well being.

"I told you, I don't want any special treatment."

"I'm thinking of the operation. My officers need to be on top form."

"I am. I will be," she assured him.

He reserved comment.

"If I wasn't here," she whispered harshly, "what would I do? Sit at home and remember the sound of the gunshot. Reflect on how by some whim of fate I was spared."

There was a disturbing hardness to her voice, the tone at odds with the gentle person he knew. She bolstered her argument.

"I'm needed here."

Emboldened by the conviction in her voice, Harry leaned in.

"That's right," he whispered. "I need you here."

She looked down at the table, her body becoming perfectly still. Concerned that she was wavering, he went a step further.

"I need you to stay focused. We can't get sidetracked by emotions or personal feelings, that's what they want. Concentrate on unravelling the web of Nightingale."

She lifted her head, their faces coming within a breath of each other. Her eyes studied him. The conversation had dissipated the fog of shock, the blue of her irises, clear and sharp. She saw right through his rhetoric. After all, she had been there when Adam had given the same speech after Colin had been murdered. He held her eyes, daring her to refute his argument. She couldn't, he knew that. Giving over to emotions inevitably led to rash mistakes. Had she not counselled him of that earlier, citing the ability error? The danger of letting past experience colour future decisions. She looked away, a hint of colour returning to her cheeks. He subtly nodded, certain that she had returned to herself.

The conversation rounded, Ruth pulled her hand out from underneath his. He let it go but kept his other arm resting on the back of her chair. She sat up, inhaling deeply, straightening her papers as she collected herself. The edges of her life falling into alignment with the files before her. A dark speck was visible on the underside of her jaw. He wanted to take his thumb and wipe it off as if she were a child. He could not. It was blood. It would require a more clinical cleanse. She felt his scrutiny and turned to find out the reason. She saw the direction of his gaze and understanding its meaning, half-raised her hand to the spot on her throat.

"Did I miss some?" she asked with quiet worry.

He nodded. She looked at him forlornly.

"It never completely comes off, does it?"

She was not referring to the mark on her skin. He did not answer but looked down at his hand resting on the table. The expensive gold band of his watch, the crisp cuff of his shirt, outward civility masking the darker actions his hand had committed. The stain of one's conscience was far harder to clean. He dreaded what would be revealed should his soul be doused with luminal.

Ruth held her hand over her throat. "I may need a morning off."

Harry frowned. Was she having second thoughts? He was certain that she had resolved to stay on the Grid.

"I need a new coat," she explained. "Its got blood on it too." An after-thought occurred to her. "And I'm charging the Service."

Lucas entered the room. Ruth looked up at his entrance. Harry remained facing her. He did not immediately remove his arm from her chair. Any hasty action would only arouse suspicion. He counted off a few seconds, waiting for Lucas to take his seat across from them. Ruth continued to organise her file, carrying on as if nothing had happened. His chest stirred with pride. In front of Lucas, she was perfectly normal. She had put the event behind her and was ready to work. He leaned in slightly, the weight of his arm signalling a proprietorial claim to her. He did not care what conclusion Lucas drew, she was his.

.

Paper and ash fluttered down, swirling over the onlookers in a macabre dance. Harry stood, unblinking. His breath rasped in his throat, his heartbeat thundered in his ears. This was not real. He struggled to find the part of his mind that would take control. He needed to take command. Sirens wailed, voices screamed. He looked about, trying to focus on something. Anything. A news crew scurried beside him, catching the incident in real-time horror. He pulled out his mobile. He needed to call Ros. He stared at the display, half aware of the futility of such an action. There was no way she had survived.

A stray ember landed on his jacket. He watched it, dispassionately. The ember settled between the threads of his sleeve, disappearing into the fabric of his suit. Seemingly doused, it still remained. It melded into his skin, flowing through his veins, coming to rest in the pit of his stomach. It sat there, waiting. It smouldered as he rode back to Thames House. It grew as he fielded calls from Whitehall, defending his decisions, explaining the actions of his team. There had been no civilian casualties. Yes, losing the Home Secretary was a blow to the nation, but it had averted nuclear war. The powers that be were not pleased. The ember grew as he briefed the Director General, though Harry did his best to keep it hidden, his voice remaining calm and cool. It was fanned by accusations from the JIC, allegations of incompetence and malfeasance. Demands to know why he had kept Nightingale a secret. He could only look at them in disbelief. Trust no one. Inside the lift, the walls closed in, pressure building, turning the ember into a white-hot rage. It burned through his belly, looking for more fuel. If he opened his mouth, it would take down the building.

He stepped onto the Grid, the glower on his face threatening to incinerate all that lay before him. Every pair of eyes on the Grid looked away lest they be singed. Only one dared to meet his gaze. He ignored her, refusing to meet her eyes. He could not bear the thought that she too would hold him accountable; for she would have every right. He marched towards his office, the scent of sulfur following him. Undaunted, she rose and walked two steps behind him. Harry crossed the threshold, the small space once again amplifying the heat of his frustration. Ruth stepped in, closing the door as she entered, aware that his rage would spill onto the Grid. She remained silent, waiting for him to speak. His words were low and deliberate.

"Someone will pay."

"Harry…"

"I want every member of Nightingale found out and exposed."

"Harry-"

"I don't care how high up they are, whatever foreign service they're in-"

"Harry-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

"I wasn't going to."

Harry glanced out onto the Grid. The face at every desk was turned to his window, watching the pantomime behind the glass. Every head swerved away when they saw his look. Ruth crossed to the blinds and with a few quick twists of the rod, shut the slats. The office was dark, the lamp on his desk making them into nothing more than shadows.

"I am responsible for all of this."

"You can't shoulder the blame. They had people inside. We didn't know who to trust."

"The Home Secretary, Ruth. The Home Secretary is dead."

The words, once said aloud, hit him with a renewed force. The burden too heavy to carry, he sank back against his desk, needing the support of the wood.

"Ros," he whispered, the loss of the woman inflicting the pain of a thousand cuts. He didn't care if Ruth heard the emotion in his voice. "Why didn't she leave him there? Why didn't she save herself?"

"I don't think she even considered leaving him," Ruth softly countered. "It was that sort of conviction that made her your best Section Chief."

He looked up at her from under heavy lids, trying to gauge if there was any sarcasm in her comment. She looked back at him, her gaze devoid of malice, only holding concern.

"You would have done the same, Harry. You know that."

It was a small morsel of consolation, barely enough to sustain him, but she was right. Death was never the preferred outcome but if he were to go, he would want to go out with one last gesture of sacrifice. War had been averted but at what cost. He would not let Ros' death be in vain. He stood up, anger returning, galvanizing him.

"We find out who did this and we take them down."

"Yes, we will," she agreed. "But we can't do that if we're exhausted. Some of us have worked through the night, we called in extra personnel when we learned of the bomb threat-"

"I don't care."

"We've been stretched to the limit. The team needs rest."

"We can rest when we've dug up every one of those maggots."

"Sarah Caufield is dead. Russel Price is dead."

"Dig them up and kill them again."

"The immediate threat has been neutralised."

"Its never over."

"I know but you need to rest, Harry. Go home."

"Home?" he countered. "Home to what? To sit alone and relive the explosion over and over. Ruminate on every mistake I made."

He crossed to the credenza, searching for the only balm that would quell his distress. He picked up the decanter of scotch. In two quick steps, she was beside him. Her hand rested on his arm, her eyes warning him.

"That's not always the answer."

He angrily moved his arm out from beneath her hand and completed the act of pouring himself the drink. She had no right to censure him. He swallowed the contents of the glass. His mind rattled through procedures that had served them in crisis past.

"Get some food in," he barked. "And coffee. That should keep the team going. No one rests until I say so."

"I'll go home with you."

His body froze at her words. Had he heard her correctly? He turned to her in disbelief, but he dared not ask for clarification. It could all very well be a hallucination, broken if he uttered a word. She looked at him, holding her ground, standing behind her original offer.

"I know how much Ros meant to you. I know what it's like to be alone with grief. It makes it hard to see things clearly."

She had taken his words and turned them back on him. Anger had always been a part of his arsenal, the fuel that ignited action. In the right circumstances, it had served him well. At this moment, it was a cover, masking the helplessness that he felt. She was astute enough to work that out. Earlier, he had asked her to put aside what he had always considered the softer emotions; pain and grief. She was only serving him his own medicine. He thought she might reach out to him, touch him as she had done on the rooftop. But she did not. She stood, waiting. He would torch everything in his path but she was of gentler ways. After a moment, she quietly prompted him.

"Let me take you home."

The bottom fell from his stomach; fight and fury leaving him. Her words took the wind from his rage, starving it of oxygen. The tumbler rattled as he placed it back down. He paused, overcome by the thought that after waiting for so long, he was to be the recipient of her soothing hand. She had not broken under the stress, she had been made stronger. Strong enough to look after him. He who had done so little to minister the pain that she carried. He looked at her, fully aware of the olive branch that she held out to him. What this offer to see him home entailed, he was not sure. Even if they were to only sit in silent companionship, he would take it. Ego tempered his impulse to walk out the door with her at that instant. He nodded, agreeing to her proposal.

"Give me an hour to straighten things up."

She nodded and left the office. No other words to mollify him, nothing to mark the world-shattering repercussions of her offer to see him home. A small event in the annals of other lives, smaller still in the great chasm of the cosmos, but huge to him. The weight that he had carried shifted, the result of a burdened shared. He would not let his thoughts run to what other worries they might share, what other reliefs she could give him.

He sat down in his chair. Out on the Grid floor, a desk sat empty, its occupant destined never to return. He would heed Ruth's advice, take a moment to breathe, collect himself. And then he would exact the vengeance that Ros deserved. His thoughts stirred the air. Though the ember was extinguished, the smell of smoke remained trapped in his skin. It would never go away. Soot, like blood, impossible to clean. It demanded its own absolution. Leaning on his desk, he pressed his hands together, threading his fingers, and bowing his head. Home. She was taking him home.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N_ \- Hello lovely people, sorry for the delay. M content on the horizon. (Transmissionends64 you know me far too well!)

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Chapter 9 - Under Gentle Wings

A layer of dust blanketed the frame; a botanical print of an exotic leaf artfully placed at the top of the stairs. Harry had never noticed the dust before, but then he had never paused at that particular spot, leaning against the wall for support. He tried to remember the provenance of the picture, perhaps it was a holdover from Jane. He had no idea how it had come to be on his wall. He ran a finger over the frame, dislodging the particles, watching as they floated down to the floor. It stirred a memory - a cloud of smoke and debris. He closed his eyes, willing the image away, knowing that he would never be free of it. He gave himself a few more seconds against the wall, exhaustion permeating his pores. The silence of the house settled around him. Dust and silence - fitting reminders of the museum that was his personal life.

The quiet of the place worried him; there should be a visitor below. Perhaps she had come to her senses and fled while he had dawdled under the stream of the shower, realising that her duty did not extend past the act of ushering her boss to the safety of his home. He would not blame her for leaving him. The shower may have cleansed his body, but his mind was still blackened by images from the explosion. And his soul; he dare not contemplate the ash that lay gathered around it. Leaving the support of the wall, he took a deep breath, marshalling his composure. He headed down the stairs, internally preparing himself to face an empty house. If she had left, he would go back to the Grid and bury himself in sorting out the fallout from Nightingale. There was nothing to be gained by rattling around in this mausoleum, better to keep his mind busy. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned the corner and walked through the living room. He stopped. The back door leading off of the kitchen was open. Thoughts of intruders immediately sprang to mind, agents of Nightingale exacting revenge. With silent steps, he carefully padded toward the door. Out on the well-worn deck, stood Ruth. Motionless as a statue, she was poised with her head to one side, her attention caught by something in the garden. He halted in the door frame, his heart rising to his throat, unaccountably overjoyed that she had not left him alone. Mesmerised by the sight of her, he remained quiet, afraid that she might flee into the bramble and join her fellow dryads. After all, she had disappeared before, the spectre of her vanishing around a corner, a creak in the floorboard that he thought was her footsteps, or his name called out in the cadence particular to her, turning out to be nothing more than the house settling. The woman who stood on his deck in her stocking feet could very well be the same sort of illusion. Ruth sensed his presence.

"There's a goldfinch in your garden," she whispered, pointing to its perch.

The yellow bird sat on the leafless branch of a small tree. Perfectly still, eyeing the human who observed it.

"I saw it through your kitchen window," she continued."Does it come here often?"

"I wouldn't know. I don't come out to the garden much."

"That's a shame. I think they are supposed to symbolise salvation."

"Gardens?"

She half-turned to him and smiled indulgently. "Goldfinches."

"I would think that gardens symbolise the downfall of man. That's why I avoid mine."

"I think that gardens symbolise all that's beautiful with the world. I had a lovely one…"

Her voice trailed off but they both knew that she was referring to her plot of land in Cypress. The garden of her previous house in London had been sorely neglected. The state of Harry's garden was no better. In the summer, a man came and tended to the wilder aspects of the plot, pruning, keeping nature at bay, but now, between the seasons, vines and grass had run amok. Leaves scuttled along an overgrown path, hiding the secrets that lay buried beneath their feet. Leaning against the door jamb, hands in his pockets, Harry mused how he could keep her there forever.

"You're welcome to come and tend to my garden."

He wasn't sure if he had spoken the words aloud, for she did not acknowledge his invitation. He did not immediately realise the suggestive quality of the words and cleared his throat trying to dispell any insinuation. He needed to be careful. He left the support of the door jamb and stepped toward Ruth. Startled by the movement, the bird took wing and flew away. How fitting that salvation should disappear the moment he moved toward it. The spell broken, Ruth turned to him, the light falling behind her. It illuminated the lighter strands of hair around her face, hiding the creases of worry, distracting him from the drab blues and greys of her outfit. Youth and beauty shimmering in his garden. He blinked and it was gone. The sun, heavy on the horizon, descended into twilight, taking away its warmth. It made one last effort to shine, and then relented to the encroaching darkness. The call of the night was not far behind. Ruth wrapped her arms around her body and shivered.

"You should come inside," he coaxed.

She had stood for a moment in his garden, a plot of land that he could have nurtured had he felt so inclined, but there was never time. He was too busy putting out fires to grow anything. She heeded his advice and walked past him. He gave way to allow her into the kitchen and closed the door. The links of the chain clattered as Harry reattached it, the deadbolt thudding as he slid it into place. Locking the world out, keeping her in.

"I was looking for something to make." She crossed to the counter. "But your larder is emptier than mine. I did make a pot of tea."

Sweet tea, he wondered, nostalgia overtaking him. He had not received such level of care in a very long time.

She opened the door of the refrigerator and ducked behind it. "But you have no milk."

"I don't take milk, remember?"

"But I do." She popped up from behind the door. "Remember?"

She leaned her forearms on the door, swinging slightly, regarding him with a teasing half-smile. There had been a note of challenge to her voice, suggesting that she held the upper hand where memory was concerned. Normally, he would concede to her superior recall, but not in this particular area. He crossed to the fridge, the door acting as a buffer between them.

"I remember that you don't like egg salad sandwiches."

"I remember that you like ham."

"I remember that you don't like dogs."

"I remember that you don't care for cats."

"I remember-"

Harry stopped himself short, a host of memories flooding his consciousness. Of the last time she had stood in his house, the heights of promise, and the unsounded depths where his heart had fallen, the sound of her breath, the feel of her skin. He placed his hand on the door of the fridge in an effort to ground himself. His hand was near her arm, the smallest movement and he could touch her. One small act of familiarity, bringing them closer, bridging the years. He did not move. The fridge hummed. The tempo of her breaths changed, the opening of her shirt shifting with the rise and fall of her breasts. Harry's eyes dropped, lingering on the scoop of the tee-shirt that peaked out beneath the unflattering covering. She could hide behind ill-fitting clothes, but the line of cleavage, fleetingly exposed, hinted at the curves that lay beneath. His hand moved on the door, wanting to close it, strike down the barrier between them, remove everything that stood in his way. His eyes must have said as much for the pertness of her demeanour changed. She cleared her throat, her tone attempting to be casual but not entirely succeeding.

"Maybe you need something stronger than tea."

Abandoning the fridge, she walked in a wide circle around him. Harry stood for a moment, staring at the door. Alcohol was the last thing he needed in this situation. He needed to remember why she was there. She was only at his house as a gesture of goodwill. He gently closed the door and followed her into the living room.

Evidently, she had remembered where he kept his liquor. She headed straight to a small trolley near a bookcase, assessing the assembly of half-empty decanters. She picked up one, gave it a cursory look, and then placed it back down. Harry smiled ruefully.

"I remember that you don't care for scotch."

"Oh, it doesn't matter." She returned his smile. "I'm sure I'll survive."

The smile fell from her face. She looked away, subdued by a realisation. She had survived when others had not. Silence crept into the space, and Harry had no idea how to alleviate it. Perhaps the answer was to accept it. A book on the shelf caught her attention. Or at least Harry assumed it was a book until she leant down and moved it out of the way. She extracted an untouched bottle of scotch. Leave it to her to find what was hidden. Like the other exhibits in his museum, the bottle had not been spared from the dust. Ruth studied the label. She wiped a layer from the cap and slowly traced over the top with her finger.

"There's a letter on this."

He made no attempt to answer the mystery. She closed her eyes, lips parting as the remembrance hit her. The bottle was from her. She had given him four bottles of expensive scotch, the very same brand that he had once enjoyed at her house. Each bottle had been marked with a letter of her name. Harry shifted his stance, feeling as if he had been exposed; caught in the act of uncharacteristic sentimentality. He rubbed the back of his neck, compelled to offer an explanation.

"I drank the first three bottles in rather quick succession after you left. It soon became apparent that all the scotch in the world could not drown out the memory of you, so I kept the last one."

It was the one labelled with an H. The last letter of her name, the first in his. The letter for hurt, for history, for the hunger that still lingered inside of him.

Her grip tightened around the bottle. Head bowed low, her lips moved in a silent struggle, one known only to her. Harry tensed. The bottle was a door to the past, one that she could walk through if she chose. Open the bottle, he silently coaxed, and let us drink to who we were. She expelled a shaky breath and replaced the bottle on the shelf, slipping it back into history. His lips pursed, biting back words. It was the right thing to do. It had been foolish of him to think that they could ever return to the past.

"I should go and let you rest," she quietly offered.

If she left, he would do anything but rest. He would prowl about the house and curse the gods, drink himself into oblivion. Peace lay only in her presence. She stepped toward the front door and his body followed in sympathetic movement, pulled by the invisible string that inevitably drew him to her.

"Ruth," he called to her hoarsely.

Ignoring him, she moved to where her coat hung, fumbling through the folds of the material, fishing her mobile from the pocket. She tapped the screen, ready to call for a taxi. Suppressed emotion strangled Harry's voice. Pride told him to let her walk out the door, but the man who had sat alone, drinking his nights away, yearning for her return, did not listen.

"Ruth." It was barely a whisper, a final plea.

She turned the mobile over in her hand but made no attempt to place a call. Instead, she shifted the phone between her fingers, testing its weight. Hesitation. What else was she weighing? It was a small opening, one that Harry could exploit; if he were that kind of man. He walked toward her. He had nothing to lose. He stood before her, lacking the armour of his suit, the shield of his position. Equals in grief. He spoke without thinking.

"You don't have to love me, Ruth, just stay with me."

The phone stilled in her hand and she looked up at him. Eyes dark, the echo of how she had once looked at him. "Oh, Harry," she whispered. "Don't you think you deserved to be loved?"

He did not answer; his silence was his reply. She looked away.

"Sometimes I don't think I deserve it either."

Stunned that she would sentence herself to such a fate, he spoke without hesitation.

"You do," he assured her. "You do deserve it."

The force of his words, so long missing from her life, reverberated through her being, opening a crack in the prison that she had erected. The energy around her body changed, months of self-imposed denial on the verge of melting. The weight on her feet shifted, resolve pulling her toward the door, indecision bringing her to him. He prayed for a wind to move her in his direction. He stared at her, willed her to take the few steps that would bring her closer to him. She spoke softly.

"There are days when I think I will suffocate under the weight of memory." She set her phone down on the hall table. "I don't want to remember anymore."

His hand rose, palm open, beckoning her. Come and forget with me.

A small whimper left her lips, and she reached out to take his hand. A few steps and she stumbled into him. This time, he was there to stop her fall. He gathered her into his arms, holding her up with the strength of his embrace. Her face pressed into his chest, her hands on his sides, fingers gripping at the fabric of his shirt as if it were a lifeline. Her body shuddered with a ragged breath. He closed his eyes, afraid that she was crying. He had no words to comfort her. He brought his hand up to the back of her head and cradled it in his palm. They stood, gently rocking, buffeted against a current of grief and guilt. They clung to each other, the muscles of Harry's arms relaxing as he leaned against her. They drew strength from each other, the lines of support blurred. His lips graced her forehead.

"You've been very brave."

Her head moved away from his chest, turning into his neck.

"I'm tired of being brave."

As she spoke, her lips moved against his skin, igniting the dormant pulse at his throat. He stood still, debating. She was vulnerable, he was in shock. His hand dropped to the curve of her waist. She was warm and alive beneath his touch. Desire rose within him, tightening his throat. He tried to swallow it. It stayed firmly lodged in place. He pulled her closer, silently asking. Let this be more than two people clinging to each other for comfort. The bone of her hip pressed against him, her thigh glancing across his. He took the movement as an invitation. His lips moved down to her temple, to the softness of her cheek, searching. Her mouth pressed against his throat and across his jaw, warm with reply. Wandering paths of kisses, nearing each other, retreating, always destined to come together. Harry closed his eyes, ignoring the price that he was sure to pay if he were to give over to this pleasure. Fate would always exact a toll.

No. This time fate owed him.

His lips met hers and time ceased its forward pull. Their bodies stilled, momentarily surprised that they had allowed themselves to travel so far. He was not about to let her go. His mouth moved over hers, wanting more, yet holding back. She relaxed into him, her arms coming around his neck, fingers moving through his hair. It was the only incentive he needed. His hands roamed over her sides, searching for the contours that he knew lay hidden beneath the unflattering layers. His tongue slid over her mouth, searching for admittance. Open to me. She did.

Thought was drowned out by the sweetness of her mouth, blood pulsing, his heart thudding with newfound virility. He could stand like this forever. A voice told him that he did not have forever. Take what you can. He lifted her on her toes, forceful in his need, his tongue thrusting, demanding more. Tasting, taking, he may never have this feast again. His hand rose to her breast, cupping the flesh beneath her shirt. She inhaled sharply, her breath drawing a moan from him. Slow down, his mind warned, you've gone far enough. He should relish the ground that he had gained and leave the plunder for another night. He did not listen. The events of the day had proven that time was not on their side. Life was not to be squandered in waiting. He kissed her hard and pulled away. He looked at her from beneath heavy lids, rubbing his thumb over her palm, pressing into the soft flesh. A question, an invitation. The blue was missing from her eyes, obscured by giant pupils. Her gaze flitted to the stairs and them back to him. She bit her lip. He took a step back, gently tugging her hand, testing how far he could lead her. He knew the enormity of what he was proposing. All or nothing; there was no other way to live this life. Throwing off hesitation, she moved along with him. She placed her foot beside his and they walked up the stairs, her hand firmly in his grip.

At the top of the stairs, she paused and looked around.

"Nothing has changed," she observed softly.

She was right. Nothing had changed. The way he felt about her, his need to possess her. He knew why his house had remained in suspension. It had been waiting for her. He moved her back against the wall, the place where he had recently stood. He pressed into her with hungry lips, christening the spot with renewed life. His fingers bunched over the material of her skirt, hitching it up. Her hand came over his, pushing it back down. Indeed, the wall was no place for this. Refusing to relinquish his hold on her, he moved them to his bedroom.

He closed the door, shutting out the world. Here, in his room, he could stop time, peel back the years, return to that one brief point when they were together.

The significance of where they found themselves rippled through the room and they drew apart. They stood by his bed, hesitant, slightly self-conscious, more than a little nervous. Toes at the deep end, anticipating the plunge. Somehow, the attraction that he had felt for her in his earlier years seemed shallow and trifling. Separation had carved out a hollow in both of them, the depths of which he did not know. If he had to dive into the unknown, he wanted it to be with her.

The top buttons of her shirt were already undone, revealing the scoop of the tee-shirt that lay beneath. He ran his finger along the collar of the shirt, down the opening to the first button. Could he rid her of these garments once and for all, rend the fabric and dismantle every snap. He restrained himself. In this room, he was the master of time, there was no need to hurry. She stood absolutely still as he slowly undid one button and then the next, moving only when he slid the sleeves from her shoulder. He caught his breath. The tee-shirt clung to her curves, for so long hidden from his view beneath the shapeless garment. A thrill surged through him. He was an explorer, returning to an ancient land, treasures buried but not forgotten. With one layer absent, she appeared younger. If he were to remove everything, how many years would she shed? Ruth placed the flat of her hand against his chest, fingers curling over the muscle. His heartbeat under her palm. Anger, worry, grief, trapped in the fibres of the muscle melted beneath her hand. Dust fell away from his soul, releasing him from the museum. He sighed. His fingers glanced across her cheek, moving her hair away from her neck, his head dipping, lips pressing against her ear.

"I have been waiting for you."

An echoing sigh fell from her lips. She arched her neck, her hands falling to his hips, pulling him in closer. His fingers tugged at her tee-shirt pulling it up past her ribs and over her head. The bra beneath was black. He smiled. Underneath it all, she was still a spook. She belonged to him. He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck, his hand moulding over the swell of her breast, his thumb tracing her nipple. Her body welcomed the touch. She mirrored his movements, her fingers undoing his buttons. How long could they stay like this, slowly unravelling each other? His mind said years, his body said otherwise.

He lowered her gently onto the bed, taking care as he joined her. He lay beside her, lulled by her kisses, hands languidly moving over her form. A nibble, a lick, delicious teasing. It was not enough to feed his desire. Hunger, always on the edge, moved in. In the space of a heartbeat, his breath grew ragged. Heated hands pulled at her bra, her skirt. She echoed his need, tugging at his shirt, his trousers until nothing was left between them. There was no pause, only urgency, body against body. Her breasts pressed against his chest, legs tangled together, the heat between them building. The deep end was warm and welcoming. His lips moved down her skin, across the flush of her chest, his mouth taking her nipple. He wanted nothing more than to give her release. His hand slid between her thighs, fingers searching, teasing, banishing thoughts. He lost himself in her pleasure.

Her skin pricked with perspiration, her body writhed, moving with soft moans and whimpers of contentment. He lay on top of her, his hand finding hers as it rested near her head. He threaded his fingers between hers. If they continued, the act would bind them together, irrevocably. He squeezed her hand, asking once more. There was no going back. She squeezed his hand in reply. She understood.

He positioned himself between her legs, shaking slightly, overcome by the immediate. Strands of hair fell across her eyes and he brushed them out of the way. The skin on her cheek was damp whether from sadness or exertion, he did not know.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her hand rose to caress his cheek. "I came to you." She pulled him down, her lips against his ear. "Come to me."

A shiver ran the length of his body. She had seen through him. In his mind, he had been the one waiting for her, patient while she worked through her grief. It would seem that she had also been waiting for him. Even when he was lost in salacious thought, he had always held back a part of himself. Half attempted overtures, avoiding talk of the personal. On the scale of the broken, she was slightly less damaged than he. She was the only one who knew him. He would give all of himself to her.

She nudged against him, bringing him back. Though her face was bathed in darkness, he could feel her smile. Here, in his bed, she was safe. He allowed himself the indulgence of a smile. Burying his face in her neck, he held her tightly memory. She moved beneath him, urging him one. He rubbed against her, teasing. After all, he was the master of time in this room. As always, she was a woman of her own mind. Her hand found him, fingers stroking his length, coaxing him to the brink. He swallowed, his body stilling. It was so easy to give over to this woman. Legs shifting, she opened up to him. He entered her and his breath ceased. Fire licked at him, bolts of pleasure radiating through his limbs. He would never last. He rocked against her, slow and gentle, desperate to draw out the sensation. Her fingers dug into his arms. He searched for something to focus on. Events from the day rose, trying to force themselves into his conscious thought. He would not let them in. He gave himself wholly over to sensation; her skin burning against his, her heat surrounding him. He deserved this. They deserved this. They deserved to be lost in each other. He moved against her, and she rose to him. Breath feeding off of each other, bodies joined, her legs wrapped around him. The muscle in his shoulder, freed from tension, shook as he searched for release. He should change position, have her another way, extend the pleasure. She bucked beneath him, calling for him to join her. There would be other nights, there must be other nights. He thrust harder, driving away everything but her. Nothing else mattered, only his need. Faster, deeper, his dreams melding with reality. Slick, wet, heat, bodies sliding. He could not hold on. A moan broke forth, deep from within his being, her name falling from his lips. He gave into satisfaction and let go.

His heart thudded in his ears. Within him, something had shattered. A love, hidden under glass, broke free and flowed through him. It did not matter, for here, he too was safe. Within the circle of her arms, he found peace, and under the protection of his, she found sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N - Where did the time go? A bit of M content near the end. Thank you for reading!_

_._

Chapter 10 - Sonata

The lift gave a sudden jolt as it started its ascent. Harry leaned against the metal interior, absently scrolling through the messages on his phone. If there was anything of importance in the queue it was lost to him. His body may be present but his thoughts roamed happily elsewhere. His thumb paused on the screen, his mind reflecting back on how many times he had ridden in that particular car. Like clockwork, each new tenure had ushered in their obligatory updates, modernising the work areas, revising security measures, but the interior of the lift had stayed reassuringly the same. Apparently, no one saw the need to improve on it. After all, it had only one job - collect its passengers and quickly deliver them. Like his office, the walls of the car had borne witness to his emotions, both contained and overt, anger, disappointment, satisfaction, and on the rare occasion, elation. The last time his heart had soared along with the gears and pulleys had been the morning after their dinner date. He had selfishly pushed away all thoughts of South African arms dealers and thermobaric bombs, indulging in musings of a more sordid nature. The walls had surely blushed. As the car trundled upward, he gave himself leeway for such an indulgence.

The bed had been warm, her skin soft, the cold call of responsibility easy to ignore. Duty lay outside the walls of his bedroom. His alarm was quickly silenced, the buzz of his phone muted. Drowsy lids, half-awake, neither one of them wanting to break the spell of pleasure that they had chanced upon. She had been the one to push him out of the bed, words muttered through sleepy kisses. In his kitchen, they had stood by the window, drinking tea. He had made a mental note to pick up some milk. Precious second stolen, Ruth had lingered by the window, hoping for the return of the goldfinch. He let her linger. Let her believe that salvation lay in his garden. It was a draw that ensured her return. Words of affection passed between them, softly mumbled, tinged by lingering sleep and embarrassment. She never wanted to put him in a position where he would have to choose between staying in bed with her or work. He vowed that he would always choose her. She rewarded him with a shy smile. It was a promise made in the sentiment of the moment, both knowing that he would always choose duty. A part of his heart disagreed, he was old and worn, if the choice was levelled, duty or her, he may not have the will to sacrifice the woman. Talk of their relationship was suspended, boundaries left undefined. There would be other days, longer nights and quieter mornings where they could untangle the workings of such things. Time hurried on, signalled by the ticking of his kitchen clock. They hurried in a flurry of coats and boots, a forgotten sweater retrieved from his upper floor. The door of his house opened to the cold wind of the world.

He had dropped her off at her flat, clumsy lips brushing in a hasty kiss. The farewell to one life, the welcoming of another. This was how his days would unfold, he silently acknowledged. Intimacy snatched and hoarded whenever it was available. As she stepped out of his car, she uttered some parting words but his mobile had rung. Attention diverted, he had missed the gist of her comment, but she was off before he could call her back. It made no matter, he would see her in a few hours. This time he was certain that their relationship, as fragile as it may be, would not sputter under the harsh lights of scrutiny. He would ask her out for a proper dinner, enjoy an expensive bottle of wine, return to his house and...

The bell dinged and the lift door opened. Harry stood, oblivious to the floor. The timer ticked, uncaring of the man who daydreamed. The mechanics of the world continued. The doors left their pockets and started their track towards each other. Startled by the motion, Harry quickly roused himself and stuck his hand between the doors. He pushed the door back and stepped out into the hall. He must be careful; losing his focus in reverie could prove to be costly. Straightening his tie, he headed down the corridor towards the pods.

The frames of the security doors stood empty, their panes of glass missing. Two mechanics, drills in hand, worked intently on the inner mechanism of the doors. Harry frowned. Another victim of progress. Had he missed the notification of this update? The alert had most likely landed in his inbox and was quickly passed over, ignored in the chaos of Nightingale. The job was always about shifting priorities. The missing glass irked him, it left him with a sense of vulnerability. A security guard stood by the entrance. For once a machine had been replaced by a human. Harry gave the man a curt nod as the guard granted him access. One of the perks of being known to all.

Inside the door, Harry stopped short. The Grid was different. A quick assessment told him there had been no repairs or renovations. He inhaled slowly. It was not a physical change that had stopped him but an atmospheric change, a magnet missing in the alignment of the universe. He turned to an empty desk. Ros. Gone, never to return. No acerbic greeting, no sly comment at the lateness of his appearance. Damn. His heart, so recently elevated, plunged to his shoes. The haze of his contentment threatened to dissolve under anger and grief. His fingers curled into a fist. Someone would pay. Blood for blood; it was the least she deserved.

Harry pulled himself back. Revenge was a waiting game; he could not lose himself in the short term. He needed to stay strong for the sake of the team. He would assemble his people, shore up morale, give Ros her due. These were always the hardest of days. He turned his head away searching for the one person who could elevate his humour. Ruth's desk was disappointingly vacant. Tariq sat at the adjoining station, absorbed in his work.

"Have you seen Ruth?"

"No I haven't," the young man shrugged, attention remaining on his computer.

Harry did not press further. Of course, she wouldn't have arrived before him. She would need to shower and change. Perhaps she was stuck in transit, a slow down on the line. He had offered to drive her into work but she had refused. Stubborn woman. He would have to remedy that. He continued to his office.

The phone on the desk blinked repeatedly. Scathing messages from every level of government, all of them wanting a piece of him. Shoring up his intestinal fortitude, Harry sat down and fired up his computer. Mail filled his inbox. A summons from the JIC, a meeting with the DG, Special Branch, queries from Six. The only thing that was missing was the Home Office. They were still reeling from the death of Lawrence. Harry glanced out onto the Grid. Her desk was still empty. He brushed away unsettling thoughts, but a low hum of disquiet remained. He concentrated on replying to his emails, a chore that he detested, his speed hampered by his hunt and peck method of typing. One hour and then two. Neck stiff, he looked up from his screen. Her desk was vacant. He walked out to the floor and spoke curtly to Tarq, his sharp tone masking his worry.

"She's still not in?"

Tariq's eyes widened, certain that he was being blamed for the tardiness of the analyst. "I don't know where she is," he stuttered.

Lucas was on his phone, immersed in a conversation, leaving Tariq to bear the brunt of Harry's growing ire.

"Tell her I want to see her when she gets in."

Tariq nodded, relieved that his boss walked away without any further damage.

Harry marched back to his office. He was meeting with the DG in half an hour; he needed to brief the staff, catalogue everything about Nightingale, assemble a trail of decision making. He needed his analyst and he needed her now. A band of tension seized his shoulder, and he tried to shrug it off. Annoyance piled upon worry and grew into outrage; she was taking advantage of their new association. It did not give her the latitude to show up on the Grid whenever she pleased. Scowling, he sat down at his computer, hunched over the terminal as he pounded at the keys. His fingers stilled on the keyboard, the hair on the back of his neck stirring. Something had happened to her. Their tryst had been discovered. Enemies unseen, waiting for such a development, working to uncover his weakness and exploit it. Had she taken the tube? Memories flooded back in; a rainy morning, a panicked call, a suspicious suicide. He needed to phone her. He should have done that in the first place.

"You wanted to see me?"

Harry's head swerved at the sound of her voice. Ruth stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame. Harry squinted adjusting his eyes to the contrast. She was a dark silhouette against the glaring light of the Grid. Where the previous day her form had been hidden beneath unflattering layers, it now revealed angles and curves. He inhaled sharply. She was dressed entirely in black. He stared at her, speechless.

"Did you need something?" she prompted.

Harry blinked and returned to the moment. "Come in. Close the door."

She did as he commanded and walked to the edge of his desk. The light of his lamp caught a glint at the opening of her blouse. Around her throat, she wore a silver chain. The piece of jewellery hypnotised him. It lay nestled in the hollow of her clavicle, moving when she spoke.

"I've assembled a file," said Ruth. "A timeline of events, decision processes, weaknesses, next steps forward. If that's what you…" Her voice trailed off.

Her words passing over him, Harry remained fixated on the necklace. Where had it come from? What had she been up to? Dallying in shops while there was work to be done. His fingers curled on the desk. He wanted to lash out at her for letting him worry, berate her for her tardiness, remind her of the pressure he was under. Anger danced with desire. He imagined the feel of the chain beneath fingers, his lips pressed against the links, have her in that and nothing more. Ruth shifted uneasily beneath the beam of his scrutiny.

"Harry?"

"Where were you?" he asked softly, unable to completely erase the undercurrent of anger.

"I told you earlier when I was getting out of your car. I needed to get a new coat."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did," she countered. "I said that I was going to take a few hours off. That I had kept a running log of the operation and I could quickly pull something together for you."

"But I didn't give you my permission."

"Permission?" Her eyebrows rose. Her mouth moved in with silent umbrage. She looked away, composing herself, remembering that she was talking to her boss and not her lover. She took a deep breath. She gave him a tentative smile, vainly searching for a way to lighten the mood and mollify the man. "I won a morning off as part of a bet, remember?"

It did little to placate Harry. "I didn't know where you were."

"I did tell Lucas."

Harry pursed his lips; he had not had a chance to ask the officer about her. She had every angle covered. He should know by now that he could not win an argument with this woman. She had arrived, that was all that mattered. In her presence, the stew of emotion that he had allowed himself to wallow in seeped away. Anger, fear, resentment; he let it all go. He remembered the lesson for the car, his musings in the lift. He needed to take advantage of this rare moment of solitude. He leaned forward onto his desk and lowered his voice.

"Thank you for your gesture of consolation yesterday."

"Is that what it was?" Her mouth crooked wryly.

"I was hoping to repay the kindness by taking you to dinner."

Her eyes widened with surprise. Such an overt offer made in the highly visible confines of his office. A flutter of panic passed through him. He had been too forward, made an assumption about the state of their relationship. Surely, they had progressed to dinner. But then, they had never followed a linear path. He presented his case.

"My day is full of meetings where I will no doubt be summarily drawn and quartered. The thought of a pleasant evening may very well be the only thing that sustains me."

"Alright," she relented. "But I get to pick the place."

Harry frowned, taken aback by her request. He had already chosen the restaurant, a little spot that he had frequented on other romantic occasions, dark, discreet. He had envisioned an entire scenario. He reluctantly relinquished his fancy.

"Of course."

Her eyes crinkled, lit with a knowledge known only to her. He would let her have this one battle. He turned back to his computer.

"Briefing room in five."

With his abrupt words of dismissal, the air of intimacy left his office and professionalism returned. Her clothes rustled as she walked away. Harry watched from the corner of his eye, admiring the cut of her new ensemble. A cloud of her scent remained in his office, its notes as hard to define as the woman herself. Inhaling deeply, he closed his eyes and relished the perfume. He may very well be dreaming. His alarm would ring and he would start the day again in a different dimension. He shook his head. No, she was with him. He would plod on with his beast of a day, trusting that she would pick a venue suitable to a burgeoning romance.

The metal leg of Harry's chair screeched as it slid across the tile. The pad missing from the bottom, it rocked slightly as he adjusted his position at the table. The crackle of a deep fryer sizzled in the background, particles of grease slipping into the weave of his overcoat. An overhead fluorescent light bathed the shop in a greenish hue. An order ready was shouted from behind the counter. None of it mattered. He was sitting with her. A tiny smile played upon Ruth's lips as she opened up the carton that contained her meal. She appeared perfectly content to spend the evening with him in a side street chippy. She knew what type of restaurant he had envisioned. Imp. She had played with his expectations. He shouldn't have been caught off guard by this quirk in her personality so at odds with the exterior of seriousness that she always presented on the Grid. He had seen her like this before on rare occasions. A throwback to her earlier self, when her smile was quick and her humour more freely shared.

Watching Ruth dig into her meal reminded Harry of his own hunger. He could not remember when he last ate, the day spent ricocheting between meetings, his body was battling fatigue. He regarded his meal with suspicion. Two pieces of fish packed with potato wedges in a Styrofoam tray. It would have to do, he was famished. The plastic knife proved frustratingly useless at cutting through the batter. He pressed on, after all, it wasn't heart surgery. Popping a morsel into his mouth, he chewed on it reflectively. It was surprisingly good. He waved his fork in the air.

"This is not what I expected."

"I like to keep you on your toes."

"That you do," he murmured, looking down at the tray.

They sat side by side, her leg swinging idly beneath the table, her foot brushing across his calf. He didn't mind. He let his eyes rest on her. A stylish black overcoat had appeared, an extension of her new wardrobe. The reason for her lateness. It was a marked upgrade from the formless grey trench. The collar accented the column of her throat. Decidedly more sophisticated. He glanced at their reflection in the greasy glass, two rather well dressed business people, sharing a meal in a shoddy shop. An unexpected piece of heaven. Her shoulder rubbed against him as she reached across and took one of his chips.

"They say that the secret to success is adaptability." She dipped the chip in some unknown sauce.

"Survival of the fittest?"

"Something like that."

"We won't be the fittest if we continue eating like this."

Ignoring his comment, she stole another chip. She could steal everything from him. She had already taken his heart.

"I used to come here," she said. "After work, when it was late. Too tired to make anything, too hungry to care what I ate. It would be dark like this." She pointed with the chip to the window. "I'd sit here and watch people go by."

"You didn't take your dinner home?"

"And eat by myself?" she asked innocently.

He gave a melancholy smile at her reasoning - that eating amongst strangers was thought to be the remedy to eating alone. His heart skipped a beat for the little analyst that she once was, traipsing about the city, by herself. How many times during those years had they eaten at separate tables when they could have been eating together?

"Funny what you miss," she observed. "Little things that you never really paid attention to but were always there. Things taken for granted."

She finished the chip, a drop of sauce remaining on her lip. She licked it off. Harry swallowed. It had been an extremely long day, and he had been subjected to at least three intense grillings from three different governmental departments. His mind had been completely absorbed in defending his decisions. Even when he had used the words collected by her to buttress his arguments, he had given her little thought. But in two seconds, with her tongue running over her lips, he had lost it all.

"Yes, the little things," he murmured.

His eyes fell down to the chain at her throat. It stood out in stark contrast to the black of her coat and the colour of her skin. It lay resting near her pulse, taunting him. It was a link to all the other ornaments that she had worn around her neck, varied necklaces that over the years had teased him. This one was sleeker, more refined. A different reiteration, like the woman who wore it. A strand of hair curled against the chain. He longed to brush it out of the way, place his lips on the spot, and mark her as his.

"You've done something." His voice came out far huskier than he intended.

"What do you mean?" She gave him a worried look.

He smiled, easing her fears. It would be so easy at that moment to tell her what she had done to him. Knocked him off of his stride, given him a new life, released him from his museum. He could open his heart and tell her how he felt. Instead, he carried on with his original observation.

"Your hair."

"Oh," she said, relieved. "I got a little trim."

How had she managed to transform herself in such a small window of time? He wanted to believe that it was because of him, that their night together had released the woman who was buried beneath grief and ill-fitting clothes. With a self-conscious hand, she brushed the strand away from her neck and wrapped it behind her ear, denying him the pleasure of doing the act. It did not matter, he would do it himself soon enough. He leaned in closer. Her lips were stained a darker colour. He smiled. It was for him. Whether it was true or not, he wanted to believe that it was for him. His eyes rose to hers. Blue verging on green, pools reflecting back his desire. If he waited any longer, he would give in and kiss her, regardless of their surroundings.

"Let's get out of here," he whispered.

She nodded.

.

The clatter of her keys echoed in the empty hallway. An eternity ticked on as she fumbled for the correct match to her lock. Harry stood by her side, eyes caressing the contour of her cheek. His chest brushed against her shoulder, urging her on, his skin taut with anticipation. He wanted to kiss her in the hallway - he had barely made it through the taxi ride and up the walk to her building. He had held back, spook paranoia too deeply ingrained. She paused with her hand on the key. She knew the thoughts that burned in his mind. Did she have the same? Her head moved slightly, studying him from the corner of her eye. Her delay was purposeful, meant to wind him up. Minx. He leaned down, his lips near her ear.

"Open the door," he whispered.

She turned the key. He left no space between the time she opened the door and their passing over the threshold. He turned her around, swiftly closing the door with one hand, pushing her up against it with the other. The world shut out, he claimed the coveted spot on her throat, pressing his body into hers. A small gasp of surprise escaped her lips before he covered them with his own. He pulled away but only slightly. He ran a finger along the chain at her neck. Her breasts heaved as she caught her breath.

"I wanted something beautiful," she whispered. "Is that wrong?"

"No." He looked at her from beneath hooded lids. "There is nothing wrong with wanting something beautiful."

Their lips met again. She pulled at the lapels of his overcoat, and he tugged at hers. He gave no thought to the state of the newly purchased garment as he slid it off of her arms and let it unceremoniously drop to the floor. She showed a similar disregard for his overcoat. Refusing to let go of each other, they clumsily stepped over their abandoned coats. In his previous visit, he had only seen her living room, he had no concept of the rest of her flat. He vaguely recollected a table; that would do. There must be a sofa somewhere. He manoeuvred her with unseeing steps across the floor, halting when they bumped into the back of her sofa. She pulled off his suit jacket, blindly draping it on the back of the sofa, only to have it slide to the floor. He undid the buttons of her blouse, sighing as he unwrapped the fabric. He pulled her back with thoughts of getting her onto the couch. She fumbled with the knot of his tie, pulling him along as she did. Teetering unsteadily, they careened away from the couch and crashed into the frame of a door. Harry opened one eye. A pile of dishes on a counter told him it was the kitchen. Where was the bloody bedroom?

"Do you have a bed?" His lips moved against her neck.

"Only a hammock," she teased.

He held her tighter. He wanted to be teased by her forever. This was the part of her that was known only to him. And he adored her for it. A wave of tenderness overcame him, hands becoming gentle, kisses growing soft. They paused for a moment, breathing erratically. They should slow down, he thought, enjoy each other. Her ragged breath punctuated the silence of her flat. She had no intention of slowing down. It was his turn to be surprised when she bumped against him, pulling at his shirt, intent on fulfilling her own desires. Her fingers flew down his buttons, teeth nipping his bottom lip, her body grinding against him. All thoughts of a leisurely pace were quickly abandoned and they quickly reached the fevered pitch at where they had started. They continued their staggering waltz down a short hall, a trail of discarded clothing left behind them. His tie, her blouse, his shirt. A door came into view and he steered her toward it.

"Not that one," she mumbled against his mouth, correcting their course.

They stumbled into her bedroom. In the darkness, he had no idea of its design. She struggled with the buckle of his belt, groaning at her inability to undo it. He took over, unhooking the leather, sliding the zipper down. Her hands free, she unfastened her skirt, the material billowing as it floated to the floor. He moved her to the bed and they fell onto it together. Bouncing on creaking springs, she laughed, full and throaty. He smiled into her skin. Young lovers, uncaring of the consequence, blood flowing under rejuvenated muscled. He was a boy with her. She was a girl beneath him. It may only be for a short time but he would experience it with every fibre of his being.

Frantic fingers pulled at the scant pieces of cloth that were left between them. The care and delicacy of the previous night was supplanted by raw hunger. There was nothing subtle in this union. No whispered endearments, no hesitant touches, both intent on fulfilling their need. Pushing him back, she climbed on top of him. He smiled at this side of her also known only to him; like his garden, slightly untamed. She swayed, buoyed by his movement, his hand on her hips as he let her set the pace. The curve of her waist, the edge of her ribs, his palm finding the roundness of her breasts. The chain around her throat glittered in the darkness, the link that bound them together. Her thighs pressed against him, muscles wavering as each thrust tipped her toward fulfilment. He did not want to let go. He shifted her off of him, a soft moan of disappointment leaving her lips. On their sides, back to front, he slid into her. The heat of her skin sparked a million points of contact, igniting him. He struggled for mastery, he would make this last forever, but it quickly became evident that the strategy was useless. All thought ceased, breath and body moving to a primaeval rhythm. Overwhelmed, he could not fight it, and gave into release, moaning as her body shuttered against him.

He lay pressed against her back, the flesh of her breast cupped in his hand. His lips moved at the nape of her neck, skin damp from exertion. Salty and sweet. Denied for so long, it had only taken one taste to set the craving afire. She was an addiction. He needed her. When he was with her, the void of darkness that filled his soul could be ignored. He did not want to contemplate what lengths he would go to feed his need. Words formed. He would say that he loved her, protect her, but she must know. There would be other times to tell her so.

"Maybe later, you can take me on a tour of your apartment," he murmured.

She pulled his arm tighter around her body, wriggling back into him. He wanted to ask if she was happy - if the grief that had plagued her for months had finally abated. He knew that it was wishful thinking. That for her, he too was an escape, a panacea to ease the pain of the uncaring world that they inhabited. Grief was a long journey. He made a vow that they would travel the road together.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N- Let's see if I can manage to get this story back on track. I hope wherever you are in the world you are safe and healthy. xx_

Chapter 11- The Man, the Myth, the Legend

The road unfurled before him, a ribbon of silver winding through the hills, glistening under a sheen of water. The sheets of rain that had followed him for the better part of his travels slowly abated, allowing the sun to break through the clouds. Rays of light streaked over the horizon, shining in contrast to the slate grey sky. Caught off guard by the sudden transition, Harry inhaled the vista. He wasn't sure if the road rose to meet the sky or if the heavens dipped down to it. A strange sensation overcame him as if he were cresting the top of the world. He savoured the feeling. Adrenaline. It had been all too scarce in recent times. The weight of his foot pressed on the accelerator. The engine purred beneath his touch, responsive, easy to handle. If only everything in his life were like that. The needle of the speedometer rose, the corners coming faster, tyres gripping the edge of the road. It was exhilarating. And reckless. He needed to exercise caution. It would be unwise to draw unnecessary attention to his journey. He slowed the car down. It was a compact little number. It would make a good vehicle for her. Not that he was in any position to recommend a car. That would indicate a certain standing and at that point, he wasn't certain of his current status in the world of Ruth Evershed. He tapped his fingers on the wheel, steering his mind away from thoughts of her. Focus on the immediate, stay in the game. It was a nondescript rental car, leased by an average looking man. Under a false identity, of course. Nothing to tie him to the vehicle. He would wipe it down and erase the GPS, return it to a different rental location. A cap and an anorak lay on the seat beside him, props meant to confuse CCTV. Versed in techniques past and current, he knew the steps needed to evade detection. He also knew there was no perfect crime. His grip tightened on the wheel. A huff escaped from his lips, the bottom of his stomach falling as if the road had dropped from beneath him. His heartbeat against his chest. The reaction was familiar. The vapours of adrenaline disappeared. He had witnessed it in his Section Chiefs. Tom and his crusade to save Professor Roberts, Adam after Fiona's death, Ros' game of cat and mouse with Jack Colville. The urge to throw oneself into the path of danger, regardless of consequence. The weight of guilt propelling one forward. The idea that one's life had no meaning.

Harry's foot eased off of the accelerator and the car slowed down to a crawl. He pulled over to the side of the road, gloved hands gripping the steering wheel as he lay his forehead against it. He had certainly matched his Section Chiefs on the scale of reckless deeds. His mind rebelled at labelling the act. Poison. Some would consider it a woman's weapon but the combination that he had used had the advantage of being entirely untraceable. It would be deemed a heart attack. He could dress it up as vengeance for Ros, but as he sat alone on the remote road where he could not hide from himself, he could see that it was fueled by the same impetus that had driven his Section Chiefs. There was no perfect crime. He wanted to get caught. He was looking for a way out.

The car that he had enjoyed moments before suddenly became too small. Harry hurriedly opened the door and stepped out. Air filled his lungs, cool and damp. He walked around to the passenger side and leaned against the door. A valley lay before him. He could lose himself in it. He lifted his hand and studied the stitching on his glove. No telltale signs from the deed he had committed. No fingerprints, no gunshot residue, no chemical signature. All of it a sign of what he had become. He was nothing more than an assassin, no better than the perpetrators he had spent his career thwarting. The road that lay before him took on a different course. He had seen others try to navigate it. In a valley this deep there was no moral high ground.

A cool wind scuttled in from the north, whispering in Harry's ear. Get out while you can. He shivered.

There was no reason to go back. The trajectory of his life had gone off track, the next step in his relationship with Ruth, entirely reasonable to him, had been rebuffed. Marriage was a lifeline, they could have held onto it, used it to find some sort of normal life, any sane excuse to leave the Service. For he would have done as much, retired with her, found a little place and given up this life. She had refused him. After all the choices he had made. There was no argument to that, in fact, he had continued in the same path, adding one more atrocity to his list of choices. What kind of man was he? He refused to be defined by his choices. He had spent years cultivating a reputation, attained a knighthood, created a legacy. If he left the Service now, all of it would remain intact. There would be no spectacular flame-out, he would walk away with his head held high.

He would create a life for himself. He could stay here, in the highlands, where the sky kissed the hills. Find a cottage, take up fishing or painting or some other gentlemanly pursuit. Anything, but golf. Probably a futile pronouncement in the land of the pastimes birth. There was always gardening. He shuddered. Whatever he pursued, experience told him it was better to walk away before he made a mistake. Or more precisely, before the situation with Ruth led him to make a fatal error.

In his university years, before Jane, there had been a girl named Irene. Luxurious red hair and a face by Botticelli. He had been utterly in love with her. She, on the other hand, had found pleasure in another man's arms, a decision that Harry had not accepted. He grimaced at the remembrance of his actions. He had called her at all hours, penned letters, stood outside her house. All to no avail. He had drowned his sorrows in a squalid night of drinking which had summarily ended in the humiliation of a drunk tank after a skirmish in a pub. All for a woman. He had vowed that he would never let the rejection of a woman have such an effect on him again. He had come close a few times, especially in the days after Ruth's departure, but he had pulled himself back from the brink then, he could do it again.

Invigorated by his resolution, Harry found the strength to push himself away from the car. He once again took his place behind the wheel. Caution, a steady hand, a level head. There was only one thing to do. As Harry continued his journey the clouds returned, shuttering the sun, making way for the rain.

The storm followed Harry back to London, continuing into the evening. Glass in hand, Harry stood at his bedroom window, watching the rain as it spattered against the pane. Relentless, heavy tears, rolling down in endless rivulets. He took a long swig of his scotch. Outside, the cloak of the night was broken only by the haze of a distant street lamp. As a rule, he usually avoided standing by windows, but that sort of precaution didn't hold the same weight that it once had. If someone wanted to take him out they were welcome to do it. He glanced over his shoulder. A letter sat on the bureau behind him, sealed in a crisp, clean envelope. It had been surprisingly easy to write. He had composed numerous such drafts in his head over the years. Each reiteration always consisted of the same pat phrases - times had changed, events demanded different ideas and perspectives. The usual business platitudes couching a resignation. He had a meeting with the new Home Secretary in the morning, he would deliver the letter in person. The optics may not be the best, but as the hours passed, Harry became more certain that it was the right decision. He took another sip from his tumbler.

Down on the pavement, a figure emerged from the shadows. Harry straightened up. He squinted through the rain. It moved with quick little steps. A woman. His fingers curled around his glass. It was her. He tensed, readying himself for the peal of the doorbell. She had changed her mind and come to him. She would want to talk but he would forgo conversation. He would take her to bed, warm the cold sheets with her skin and soothe his battered ego. The doorbell did not sound. There was only silence. He switched his position at the window and looked down the opposite direction of the street. The figure had moved past his house. The weight of unbearable disappointment settled on him. Silly man, why would she come to him. He drained his glass and looked forlornly at the bed.

He could call her. He could concoct any number of reasons to phone her; he had been away from the Grid for more than twenty-four hours. He closed his eyes. He dreaded to think what a conversation with her might entail. A futile attempt to resuscitate a relationship that was neither dead or alive but existing in some sort of limbo. They would have to hash it out at some point - this strange romance that was neither real or imagined, barely tested yet slipping through his fingers. It had not crumbled through argument or indiscretion, but by the divergence of two roads. If she did not want to travel the same road with him, he would go it alone. There was always compromise, but that would mean relinquishing a certain amount of pride. Her rejection of him had already depleted that reserve, he had to guard what little he had left.

.

Harry placed the phone back in its cradle. He let his hand rest on the receiver for a moment as he glanced out onto the Grid. He sat back in his chair and ran a thoughtful hand over his chin as he digested the information recently shared with him. He weighed its consequences. He did not need to act on it, there was no pressing concern to address. Indeed, as one who was resigning from his post, it was none of his business. His eyes skimmed the Grid a second time. He did not see the subject of his thoughts. It was none of his business but the information pricked at him. An unbidden growl rasped in his throat. The walls had heard that particular sound many times. They told him to ignore the information. He would miss their advice.

If there was a good time to leave, it would be now. His new officer, young Levenids, had reported in safe and sound after retaking the hijacked Hanover Star and the team had cracked the code of a high-level Al Qaeda operative. Lucas was meeting with a drop-in; the woman whose quick thinking had helped him on the cargo ship. A coincidence where there should be none. It had led Harry to do some digging. No one stepped onto his Grid unknown. Beth Bailey had been a former candidate for the Service, turned down due to a certain degree of arrogance. It intrigued Harry. Strange how the woman had come to be on the boat. Her Russian connection. What could she have to say to Lucas? Curious as to the outcome of the interview, Harry left his office and went on a search for Lucas.

As he wove his way through the work stations, Harry compiled a mental list of matters that would need his attention before he left. Loose ends, deciding which contacts he would share and those he would guard, document the lessons he had carried around in his head.

His mind elsewhere, Harry rounded the corner and stepped into the corridor. He stopped short. Ruth stood at the opposite end. She had sighted him first for she had halted in mid-stride. Harry's heart jumped to his throat. The fluttering stomach of a schoolboy running into his crush. There was no reason to feel this way. He had already interacted with her a number of times that day, they had sat in his office as she explained how she had concluded that Talwar was in the UK. Cool, professional, neither of them giving any indication that a proposal had been offered up. He studied her, dissecting his reaction, concluding that it was the way that the light framed her face that had caused his heart to stop. She looked younger as if she had just stepped out of the past. His past lurked around every corner. Her eyes darted back and forth, assessing the situation., and for a moment Harry thought that she was going to turn around and flee. He should save her the trouble and leave himself.

Neither of them moved.

An arc of tension spanned the space between them, pushing against the walls of the corridor. They had not spoken since he had dismissed her from his office, rejecting any further discussion regarding his resignation. What else might have transpired had he let that conversation continue? What nugget would she have divulged? When he had informed her of his resignation she had stood in silent judgment. She thought him weak for leaving - accused him of feeling sorry for himself. She had no right to judge him. Harry began to walk.

Ruth set her shoulders straight and walked toward him. Two knights on the list ready to joust. He could lower his lance, walk on by, give her a curt nod and be done with it. Leave it, let it go, it was none of his business. He dug his hands into his pockets. As she neared him, her eyes glanced in his direction. He nodded and continued. Shoulders passing with an inch of each other, he inhaled. It was a mistake. A cloud of fragrance trailed in her wake, leaving behind that particular note that always unwound a tendril of memory within him. Harry stopped.

"Oh, Ruth," he called after her with a studied nonchalance. He looked back over his shoulder to see if he had gotten her attention.

Though she had stopped, she did not fully turn toward him. "Yes, Harry?"

Hands buried in his trouser pockets, Harry casually walked back toward her. Avoiding direct something he took a stance perpendicular to her shoulder.

"I just got off a call with Tony Barker. " He paused to let the name sink in. She remained unperturbed, so he continued. "Over at Counter Espionage."

Ruth looked at him under hooded lids, wary of his words. "Oh?"

"He said that you had expressed interest in transferring to his department."

He watched as his words hit their mark. Caught, her eyelids fluttered and the rise and fall of her chest quickened.

"And what did you say?"

"I wasn't about to let on that I had no idea what was happening in my own section, so I played along."

"I was merely mentioning it to a friend that I have over there."

Her voice was strained, a tiny crack on the last word. Friend? What friends did she have that he did not know about?

"You could have mentioned it to me."

Her eyes darted back and forth, looking for a way out of the conversation. She had over the years mastered lying to outside parties but she still could not lie to him.

"I didn't want to bother you."

"Counter-espionage?" he questioned, unable to hide the derision in his voice. "No one willing transfers to Counter-espionage, one gets shuttled there."

"There's nothing wrong with that department. It still does valuable work."

"If you're a ghost."

"You worked there," she protested, bridling against the perceived insult

"During the cold war. When we were dealing with Russian moles and illegals."

"The Russians are still a threat," she countered. "And the Chinese."

"You're needed here."

"So are you," she shot back.

He might think that her actions were a form of retaliation for not forewarning her of his plans to leave. But he knew different.

"I only told you a few hours ago that I had resigned. I have never known the wheels of Service bureaucracy to turn quite so fast."

Harry paused, letting it sink in that he was well aware of the timeline of events. She had asked about a transfer days before she knew that he was resigning. It pricked at his pride. She could not leave; he was to be the one to leave.

"What if I don't sign off on it?"

She frowned at him. "What does it matter? You're not going to be here?"

It shouldn't matter but it did. Another man stood to benefit from the fruit of Harry's labours. He had trained her, moulded her. Why should Barker reap the rewards? Harry could not explain to her why it irked him so. In his mind, he had envisioned her alone on the Grid, bereft of his guidance, missing him. Hoping that he might appear around a corner just as he had hoped to see her during the years of her exile. Feel his presence at her shoulder, only to turn around and find no one. Yes, it was the death of Ros that fueled his resignation, the never-ending vigilance against enemies within and without, but he wanted her to suffer. It was terrible, he knew that, and he asked himself again what kind of man would wish pain upon the woman that he loved but he wanted her to feel his absence just as he felt hers. There were no circles under her eyes, her face was not drawn and haggard from lack of sleep. He begrudgingly observed that she had not looked more lovely since her return to the Grid. Her refusal of his proposal had left no mark on her. It was evidenced by her blithe request to be transferred to another section.

"I can't support your transfer. It would deprive the Section of intellectual capital during a transition phase. It would be irresponsible."

"Irresponsible? You handed in your letter of resignation when Lucas and Dimitri were on a container ship in the middle of the North Atlantic."

Harry's eyes narrowed. How did she know when he had given the letter to Towers? Ruth licked her lips and looked away. She had tipped her hand. Of course, she would know when he had submitted his resignation, she had contacts everywhere, he couldn't expect that her web of information that he had come to rely on wouldn't, in turn, be used against him.

"You could have warned me," he hissed at her. "Asked for my advice."

"Like you did with me before you handed in your resignation?"

Composure, along with his patience, was quickly slipping away. The conversation threatened to boil over into a full-on argument. The high traffic area of the corridor was not the place to hold this debate. He wanted to imagine her sitting behind her desk, pining for him, riddled with regret. If she left, she would be embarking on a new life, one without him, one that he could take no comfort from. It would mean letting her go.

"Why would you want to leave without telling me?" he asked.

"Was I supposed to stay here and have you bite my head off at every turn?"

It was true, he had been unnecessarily sharp with her, his frustration with their private situation spilling over into their professional relationship. He removed his hand from his pocket and ran it over his hair. He wanted to be a better man, but he could not bear the thought of her thriving in another department. She was his. He had resurrected her. She was his legacy.

An impatient huff escaped her lips, frustrated at their inability to reach an agreement. It didn't have to be this way. If she had said yes to him they could be planning a wedding instead of snapping at each other about who was leaving. He looked down at her, a man of two minds. For years he had longed for her return, talked himself in and out of love with her, made peace with her absence, exalted in her return. Why was he leaving? If she was willing to transfer out of the Section, why could she not leave with him? His fingers flexed, itching to take her by the arm, pull her in, drag her out. Have a proper conversation to clear the fog that lay between them, away from the prying eyes of the Grid. What was the use? Why were they always at such an impasse?

The air shifted about them. The crackle of defiance subtly changing within her. Ruth inched closer to him, dipping her head, inviting confidence.

"Was it wrong that I was unmoved by the death of the former Home Secretary?"

Harry frowned, puzzled by the change of topic, though he should know by now that her mind moved in a hundred different directions at once. He gave a terse shake of his head, indicating that it was not the place to broach such a subject. As usual, she did not heed him.

"When I gave you the information. I think deep down I knew what you would do with it."

Her confession served to confirm his suspicions. She knew as she always did what Harry had done - what he was capable of doing. Did she believe that it somehow made her an accomplice? Harry was on the one who carried through with the act.

"You told me years ago that it was not our job to mete out justice." She eyed at him. "I knew what you would do and that is why I told you."

A current of mutual culpability passed between them. She stepped in closer, her fingers glancing against the hem of his jacket.

"I didn't think that it would lead to your resignation."

"That's not the reason-"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her the truth. It wasn't just the loss of Ros, or the bodies piling up, the futility of it all, not the feeling that he didn't make a difference. He had offered up his heart to her and she had given it back to him.

Ruth closed her eyes, lines forming between her brows. "It was just a query about Counter-Espionage. I don't know if I would have followed through with it. Well, not until you told me officially that you were leaving."

A sad little smile crossed her face. She gazed up at him, inviting an intimacy that he knew he could not claim. Her voice was soft, and he bent his head lower to hear her words.

"Do you remember when you asked me if Jo was the only reason for my return?"

Another detour in the conversation. Harry was once again left to puzzle over its meaning. He nodded, remembering that she couldn't give him the answer that he wanted. The lines left her face, flashes of her youth returning. She swayed toward him, her lips close to his ear.

"She wasn't the only reason I returned."

Before he could respond, she turned on her heels and walked away. He watched as she retreated down the hallway. He had no idea what had just transpired. He was the one that was supposed to leave her. He had to leave. There was no other way out of this. But in the silence of the corridor, left with the memory of her scent, the certainty of that decision threatened to melt away. He shook his head, searching for his resolve. It was the right time for him to leave, recent events had pointed in that direction. And yet, he wavered. They could each leave the section but they would always be bound by shared secrets. Enmeshed with knots, tangled hearts, unresolved emotions. Harry inhaled deeply. She had not implored him to stay. It had only taken a few short words and she had upended his world once again. She had all but admitted that he had been the reason she had returned. It made it all but impossible for him to leave.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 - This Is Work

He would paint the wall. Obviously, it would not be his hand that held the brush. That distinction would fall to the mysterious crew of people who arrived in the dead of night and rearranged the furniture. It would become the same uniform grey that adorned the rest of the Grid, its personality bleached away. It was time to give up the vanity of the red wall, for if truth be known, it had stopped speaking to him. Gone were the calls to actions, the cautious murmurs, whispered longings. The strange tick that he sometimes heard, now silent. It had all deserted him along with his instincts, the absence made apparent by the number of ill thought decisions he had made of late.

Harry stared at the wall, his thoughts holding him in place, arms stopped in mid motion as he slid into his overcoat. The hallmark of a great artist was knowing when to lay down the brush and walk away. He had tried to walk away, extract himself from the tentacles of the Service, only to be called back. An exercise in futility, his letter of resignation torn up. He had mocked those who had stayed on past their time and yet here he was, on track to do the same. The window through which he could elegantly leave the Service was fast closing. The great masterpiece that was his career was in danger of becoming fodder for the dustbin.

The buzz of his mobile claimed his attention, bringing him back from his musings. He glanced at his phone. It was Lucas, waiting for him at the doors of Thames House. Harry shrugged on the rest of his coat, cursing softly at his distraction. A divided mind led to costly mistakes and at that point he could afford no more errors in judgment. It had been rather premature to congratulate himself on his unorthodox manner in hiring a new officer. Oxbridge candidates lived in a bubble of wealth and conformity, better to recruit someone who had experience in the real world. It made sense to him that Beth Bailey was that different type of recruit. A difference which apparently included a stint with a Colombian drug cartel. Harry silently kicked himself for the hurried background check. Skip the vet, live to regret. He could have overlooked such a career decision, he was no saint himself, if she had not sat in front of him and blatantly lied to his face. He was, of course, in the business of lying but that was to other people. He was not the one to be lied to. His fingers tightened on the lapel of his coat and he gave it an angry jerk. As soon as the current mission was complete, Miss Bailey would be out the door, free to once again gather more real world experience.

Harry gave one last sweep of his office, his eye once again drawn to the wall, his previous focus abandoning him. Creeping out from the corner of his mind, slunk a memory that refused to be ignored. His ill conceived off taunted him, demanding his attention. Unfortunately, it was not a matter that could simply be resolved by terminating the subject. It was a conundrum, the unsolvable riddle that was Ruth Evershed. Like the knot that bound him to the Service, there was a tangled thread that wove her to him. How many hours had he lost trying to divine her reasoning, vowing to step away only to be drawn back in by a soft word. They were stitched together by dark deeds, a relationship so disfigured that it was undeserving of the sanctity of marriage. He refused to believe it; they were deserving of that and so much more. She had seen his better angels; she was the one who brought them out. She knew he was more than the sum of his notorious parts, and yet at times he considered ceding the battle. His gambling instinct told him to cut his losses and run. The loss of a relationship with Ruth would only be one more sacrifice to add to the pyre. Remove the arm to save the body. Unfortunately, he needed every arm available to juggle all his problems. At that moment in time, there was only one mess that he could sort out. The British government was backing a coup against the current Nigerian regime, an act facilitated by the use of a deadly nerve agent. How many politicians did Robert Westhouse hold in his back pocket, honourable members of parliament willing to turn a blind eye, all in the name of ensuring that the nation had enough fuel. It was always about oil. They should go back to horse and buggies and be done with it. His phone impatiently buzzed again. With Herculean effort, Harry pushed away all thoughts of a personal nature and exited his office.

As he walked through the Grid, Harry extracted his gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. The leather was reassuringly snug. It was an extravagance that he allowed himself. Never skimp on quality leather gloves or a fine silk tie. One never knew when accessories would save one's life. Besides, what other indulgences did he have? A decent aged whiskey, of course. Cigars, on occasion. Women. If only. Harry charted a course through the Grid, tacking towards the desk of his analyst. He slowed his pace as he passed Ruth's station, giving her a cursory comment over his shoulder.

"I'm going out for a round of golf."

Without waiting for Ruth's reply, Harry continued toward the pod doors. He did not look back but took a singular comfort in the squeak of her chair wheels. He took even greater pleasure in the tap of her boots as she hurried to catch up with him.

"Harry, wait," Ruth breathlessly hailed him. "What are you talking about?

Harry stopped and examined his gloved hand. He peered at a seam in the fabric, the action indicating that it was his concern for the leather that had delayed him rather than her words. Absorbed in his glove, Harry nonchalantly rattled off the update that he had just received from Lucas.

"We suspect that Westhouse has disguised himself as his wife's chauffeur and has driven her to her golf lesson. That's where he is planning to hand off the VHX."

Ruth turned to cross back to her phone. "I'll get CO19 as back up. And we'll need a biohazard crew."

"No."Harry called after her. "We need to keep this low profile. I'm running point."

"What?" She pivoted and crossed back to him. "Lucas and the team can take care of it."

"Westhouse dines with half the cabinet. We have to make sure we don't ruffle any feathers."

"Harry, you don't know what you may be walking into. Your place is here."

"Are you saying I've lost my touch, become a desk spook." He balked at her insinuation. He was still in his prime, he could hold his own, run circles around the younger officers.

"I'm saying that we don't know the motives of all the players. We've got Nigerians, Russians, Colombians. Westhouse's own security, which he has shown will not stop at anything."

"There is no time to discuss this. Lucas is waiting for me downstairs.".

"Harry." Ruth placed a hand on his arm to stop him. He looked down at it, frowning. She immediately removed it. "Do you remember the Eerie exercise? The VX scenario?"

"Are you telling me that I need to go and hide in my office?"

"We're not talking about an exchange of military hardware here. This is a bioweapon. The canisters that Westhouse is handing off contain chemicals that if released will paralyse you and ultimately lead to a slow and painful death by asphyxiation.'

Harry looked down at his arm, the spot where she had placed her hand still electric from her touch. She would certainly know a thing or two about the limbo between life and death, the many times she had syphoned the air from his lungs, from lust, love, loss.

"Your confidence in me is very reassuring."

"Harry…."

Harry fiddled with the cuff of his glove, mulling over her words. This death that she had alluded to, was it really that slow. It might be a welcome end, certain to be seen as an heroic sacrafice. He shook the thought away.

"Your concerns are noted. One might actually think you care about my safety though I'm sure it's more of a concern for the members of the Foxhills Golf Club."

Ruth narrowed her eyes at him. She would not be brought into his petty argument. Harry pursed his lips. The quip had been immature, entirely unbecoming of a man of his stature but he made no effort to rescind it. Instead, he narrowed his eyes back at her. She was dressed in black from head to toe. He had thought that it meant her return to her life as a spook, but it was not the black of Ros and Lucas. It was a shapeless sweater and an unbecoming skirt. It was the black of mourning. It angered him. He silently commanded her to make a decision. Be in this world with him or leave. As forceful as he felt about it, he would never say the words aloud. He drew himself up to his full height.

"Check in on the team that's following Chapman. He thinks he's about to board a flight to Dubai."

Harry turned and walked away. Invigorated by the thought of a showdown with Westhouse, the touch of a swagger energising his step. He would show her that he was still a more than capable officer in the field. That the personal business between them had absolutely no effect on his ability to maintain his focus. Rejection meant nothing, he had suffered greater wounds.

.

The pain stole upon him like a thief in the night. Harry brought his hand to his chest, shocked by its sudden intensity. Heartattack. This was how it was to end, an inglorious demise, found unconscious on the floor of his office. Not out in a blaze of glory. The wall would be left a vermilion red, a mocking tribute to the man who had lived beneath it, the only remnant of his occupancy. Harry hissed between clenched teeth. The pain expanded into concentric circles, filling the room, blurring the edges of his reasoning. He squinted out onto the Grid. Stations sat abandoned for the evening, lights dimmed. He reached for his phone but the muscle of his shoulder instantly seized. The cause of the pain became apparent. Not his heart, but an ancient wound, thought healed but obviously not willing to be forgotten. Harry shook his head, giving out a strangled laugh at his folly. Finally, a problem to which there was an easy solution. The salve for wounds both physical and otherwise. He slowly left his chair and inched toward the credenza. A bead of perspiration trailed down his temple. At one time he had brawled with the best of them and walked away without a wince. What had happened to his threshold for pain? Favouring his right arm, he opened a decanter and poured himself a drink. Three quick gulps finished the glass. He poured himself another and turned to his chair. Thinking the better of it, he went back and retrieved the decanter, bringing it along with him, just in case. He had been perfectly fine during his conversation earlier with Lucas, why would his shoulder bother him now? Adrenaline, he concluded, the excitement of being out in the field. It had been a while since he had felt such satisfaction, confronting Westhouse at the Club, extracting the case of VXD with a few choice words. Oh, the look on the man's face when he realised that his well laid plans to take over the Nigerian oil industry had been scuttled. There had been some jostling afterward but Harry had thought nothing of it. Until now. A Nigerian hit man, thinking Harry was Westhouse, had taken a shot at him. It was only the quick thinking on Beth's part that had saved him. He had hit the pavement with a resounding thud, the weight of the young officer landing on top of him. It had made him slightly more charitable toward her previous transgressions. He should be thankful that the pain was only this bad, it was a far cry from the white hot piercing of the original bullet. The surgeon had called him lucky, fortunate that the bullet had missed his heart. Though there were some who would argue he possessed no such organ. He rolled his shoulder, searching for a position that would alleviate the torture. He pressed his fingers into the muscle, massaging his thumb into the tension. He would need to have it looked after. He loathed the idea of going to a doctor. In the beginning when the wound was new, he had diligently attended his physiotherapy sessions, needing to be on top form should Mace intend to hijack the Section again. In the intervening years, he had forgone such pampering. He was made of sterner stuff. He had discovered a multitude of remedies for dealing with pain. Crystal clinked as the mouth of the decanter touched the lip of his glass. Drink was a crutch, he was well aware of that fact. He would quit one of these days. When things slowed down. He took a long, slow draught, letting the liquid burn down his throat and spread through his chest. Yes, he had been lucky that the bullet had missed his heart so that it could be wounded by a few careless words. Harry closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Perhaps he could find other means to ease the pain. Somewhere, there must be a willing pair of tender hands. A woman who was of a similar mind. Someone who understood him, would forgive his transgressions.

"You were nearly shot."

Harry's eyes flew open. Ruth stood in his doorway, arms crossed, judgement radiating from her posture. Harry struggled to sit up. He could not let her see his pain, physical or otherwise.

"Nearly being the operative word."

"I hope you're happy."

"If you're asking if I'm happy that we stopped a chemical weapon from getting into the hands of paid mercenaries thus thwarting a government sanctioned coup on foreign soil, then yes, I'm happy."

"I meant happy that you cheated death."

Eyelids hooded with suspicion, Harry took a sip from his tumbler and studied her over the rim. The warmth of the scotch offered little insulation against the chill that emanated from her rigid stance. There may not be a definitive relationship between them but he had expected his analyst to show at least a little more concern for his well being. If he didn't know better, he would suspect that she was spoiling for an argument.

"I think most people would be happy that they cheated death."

Ruth stepped forward and planted herself on the opposite site of the desk. "I think you purposefully put yourself in harm's way. Just like Ros did with Jack Caufield."

Unable to meet her eyes, Harry carefully placed his glass back on the desk. "Are you hinting that I have some sort of death wish?"

"Did Ros?"

"Of course not," he countered, his tone more forceful than necessary, for he had indeed had the same thought about Ros. "She was a consummate officer."

"Carrying a rather large burden of guilt."

"Perhaps we can leave the delvings into my psyche to the professionals. If that's everything." Harry raised his arm to wave Ruth away but his shoulder betrayed him. A jolt of pain ripped through the muscle causing him to give an involuntary grimace.

"Are you alright?"

Though her tone had softened by a degree, Harry knew that she asked merely as a courtesy. She did not really care. "Yes, I'm fine," he assured her through gritted teeth.

"You don't look alright."

He inhaled a deep breath, subduing the pain. "I landed on my shoulder when Beth tackled me trying to get me out of the hit man's sights. It's just acting up."

"Have you been seen by anyone? It might be dislocated."

"No." He took a large gulp of the scotch. "It's an old wound - bothers me now and then. Dampness. Or age, I suppose."

"Yes, old wounds do have a way of coming back."

He looked down at his glass, debating the wisdom of asking her to sit with him and partake. They could talk of graves and worms and epitaphs. And the death of them.

"I'm fine. Really," he assured her gruffly. "Don't let me keep you."

Harry closed his eyes once more. She must have taken him at his word for the soft shuffle of her footsteps receded across the carpet. He leaned back in his chair, summoning his strength to lift his body and make his way home. He could just as easily spend the night in his chair, he had availed himself of that before. There was no reason for him to leave. Nothing to draw him home, no one waiting.

A faint rattling sounded next to him, followed by a muted pop.

"Here. Take these."

Ruth had returned to his office, silent as a cat. She stood to the side of his desk. In one hand she held two tiny white tablets. Harry regarded her warily.

"What are they?"

"Paracetamol."

He knew what they were, his question was more why was she offering them up to him. A peace offering? A sign of caring? Or something far darker? Ruth placed the tablets on his desk and topped up the liquid in his tumbler. Harry raised an eyebrow. How very unlike her to champion whiskey with drugs. Ruth busied herself by pulling a chair around to the side of his desk giving every indication that her remedy for his ailment would be followed. Who was he to argue? Harry scooped up the pills and washed them down with the scotch. Ruth shifted in her chair, searching for a comfortable position. She leaned her elbow on his desk, her temple coming to rest on her hand. She paused, rubbing her fingers across the faint lines on her forehead. Slender fingers, tender hands. The memory of her touch imprinted on his aching mucle. The light of his desk lamp pooled around her, casting a beguiling glow on her skin. Harry's chest moved, his breathing becoming deeper, the alcohol and painkillers working through his system. From somewhere in the recess of his being his heart gave a slow beat. It was the red of the wall. The absence of light on the Grid meant his wall illuminated Ruth. It held her, both of them, outside of time. The last to remember who they once were. He wondered why he ever wanted to paint it. The wisp of a memory formed, but it refused to take a recognisable shape. He reached for it but it eluded his grasp. A younger Ruth came to mind.

"You don't wear red anymore."

Ruth frowned at him. "What?"

Harry ignored her question. He had meant it to be a silent observation. He must take care not to fall into the air of intimacy that was forming around them. He wondered if this constituted a late night tete a tete. It was for this very reason that he had pre-empted such a discussion a few nights earlier. Things that lay in hiding during the day had a way of slipping out at night. Harry took a drink of his scotch. His shoulder muscle gave a sharp spasm, and he forced himself not to grimace. It made no difference. Attuned to the nuances of his expression, Ruth knew that he was in pain. She tilted her head as she studied him. Her eyes were dark in the dimness of the office. Judging from her more tempered demeanor, he concluded that she was there on a personal matter. Even with the drink, Harry's throat grew dry. She had come to talk about them. She had come to him, just as she had on the rooftop with a further explanation of her reasoning. In the interim, there had been time to formulate his argument, assemble rebuttals to her refusal, he could persuade her, he knew that he could, he only needed to find the right words. Ruth inhaled a fortifying breath.

"I don't think you should keep Beth on. After everything that has happened."

Harry sat back, her words pushing him away. He had been entirely wrong. She had not come to speak of them. It had not been concern for his welfare that she had retrieved the painkillers. She had only wanted him alert so she could talk about the staffing of the section. Harry gathered his wits.

"Lucas has accepted the position of Section Chief."

Ruth nodded. She had expected as much. Harry had spoken of it to her. But she did not immediately understand what that had to do with Beth.

"One of his conditions was that he wanted to build the team as he saw fit," Harry explained. "Including keeping Beth."

"She lied to us, Harry."

Harry took small comfort from her use of the word that brought them together. It meant they were united in some fashion. The conversatin was strangely reminicient of the talks her would have with Jane over their son.

"I think she is suitably penitent for her earlier omissions."

Ruth tapped a finger on the desk, instilling her point. "She lifted my fingerprints and hacked into my computer."

"Some might call that ingenuity."

The observation garnered him a stone cold stare. Odd that she wasn't championing the young officer. Ruth was the saint of lost causes. It was even stranger that he felt compelled to defend the young woman. No, he wasn't defending Beth, he was defending his decision. He bristled at the idea that Ruth questioned his judgment. Theirs was a marriage of true minds, if nothing else. She always agreed with him. That wasn't true, she had often countered him. But he was rebuilding the Section, he needed her support. If not emotionally, at least professionally.

"I think, under your guidance Beth might-"

"That's not my job."

Harry blinked at her abrupt response. Yes, it was her job. It was their role to parent the Section. If they could not be more together then they could at least hold the team together. How did she not see that? Harry leaned forward, or as forward as he stiff shoulder would allow.

"Listen...

"She killed a man in my flat."

"Technically, it was Chapman who fired the shot."

Ruth's mouth fell open, a wave a vulnerability washing over her face. Her gaze fell down to her hands, and she concentrated on lacing her fingers together. A stab of regret pricked at Harry. He had been too hasty in his reply. Unsure what to say, he waited for her to speak.

"I can't be responsible for anyone else." Ruth's voice was no more than a whisper. "I'm still trying to…"

Harry squinted, trying to decipher what she was saying. "To what?" he prodded

Ruth cleared her throat. "A man died in my flat. My home."

The thought had not crossed his mind, the ramifications of recent events. Death had followed her to her door and crossed the threshold. There was no sanctuary. It was the reason she was still on the Grid so late in the evening.

"I don't think I can stay there," she added.

Harry swallowed, trying to open a passage in his throat. Words buzzed in his head. There was only one thing to do, a solution beneficial to both of them. She needed to come back to his. They could forget together. The words formed in his mouth almost making it to his lips, but she spoke first.

"I might have to leave."

Harry's heart stopped. Leave? Leave her flat? The Section? Him?

"I've been thinking of selling it."

Relief washed over Harry. "You can do whatever you want; the flat is yours."

Her eyes met his, a silent understanding passing between them. She knew that he had been instrumental in securing the flat for her. There were no strings, she was by no means a kept woman, he had merely called in a few favours. Still, she felt compelled to tell him of her plans.

"You see, there are still some things about Cypress that aren't settled."

"I thought you looked into that a while ago."

"That was a financial matter, this is-

"If you need money-"

"No," she countered abruptly. "No, that's not it." Her voice hitched, on the verge of tears. "That's not it at all."

Ruth looked down at her hands, fingers twisting together and unwinding. Her shoulders slumped, air seeping from her. She took a ragged breath and raised her head, a plainative look in her eyes asking him to understand. He searched her face looking for meaning. What was he supposed to understand? He inhaled with frustration. How could a woman of such intelligence communicate the varied facets of a multi level threat but fail to divulge the inner workings of her mind. An uncomfortable silence crept in, threatening to push intimacy away. He should apologise for offering her money. He only wanted to help. He didn't know how. He could still only think of one solution.

_Come back to my bed. Fall into my broken arms and lay your hands upon my shoulder. I will ease your pain as you ease mine. Let me look after you. It's foolish for us to be apart._

He did not say his thoughts, only looked at her, into her, conveying with his eyes what he wanted. She must know what he was thinking. She swayed in her chair, the barest slip of her tongue flicking over her lip. Struggling. He wanted to believe that she had understood his silent invitation.

"You're right."

Harry sat up, certain that they were for once both of the same mind. But Ruth continued.

"I should go find Beth. You know the old adage, help yourself by helping someone else."

The conversation ended, taking with it the prospect of endless possibilities. Ruth brushed off her skirt, shaking away the crumbs of their broken intimacy and stood up.

"Good night, Harry."

She was gone. Harry remained, staring at the spot where she had just sat, left with the scotch, a bottle of Paracetamol and an opportunity missed. If he had said the words aloud would she have stayed? Would she have come home with him? He ran his finger along the rim of his glass. It was better that he had held his peace, not offered himself up once again for rejection. This was the new status quo and he would have to find a way through it. He would need the navigation skills of a master mariner. This was work. In more ways than one. She was work. How often had he thought of her as his creation, that he could mould, break her, revive her. She was his work. Still unfinished, not fully realised. He took one last swig of his scotch and sat back in his chair. It was not yet time to walk away from his masterpiece.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 - Pactum Serva

Make a friend of the wolf, but keep the axe ready. The proverb surfaced from the depth's of Harry's memory, though he could not recall where he had heard it. His time in Berlin, perhaps? Whatever the origin, he was certain that no one had ever said invite the wolf into the house. And yet, that's exactly what had transpired. The result was an aberration, an affront to Harry's entire career. With one single decree, an elected official (no doubt destined to serve one term) had erased decades of hard won advancements in the field of counter espionage. A betrayal of all the years that Harry had spent in Berlin, his work in Cologne, the ensuing fall out from Omega, nullified. Fighting a war without borders, conscripting informants, evading detection, the strain on his marriage all for nought. It was the last straw. But then, wolves were known for toppling houses of straw. The Cold War had left ice in Harry's veins where Russia was concerned. A KGB officer on the Grid. Ridiculous. Or FSB as they called themselves these days. They could dress themselves up with whatever letters they wished; a Russian was a Russian. It was tantamount to treason. Harry should have known better than to expect more from Towers. Like all politicians, the man possessed an evolving loyalty, hiding his lack of backbone behind diplomatic soundbites. But to have his own analyst turn against him - it cracked the rungs of command. Inviting the enemy into the heart of the operation. What had she been thinking? And to do so without his consent, choosing to go behind his back. She knew his past, what he had sacrificed. It smacked of gross indifference and insubordination.

Ruth stood in front of him, the personnel of the Grid blithely unaware of the hissing whispers of their conversation. Harry poured every ounce of his self-control into maintaining his mask of cool indifference. They circled the edge of an argument, threatening to be drawn into the maelstrom of personal grievance. It was only the timely interruption of Tariq that had pulled them back.

The Russian was on his way.

The news heightened Harry's already sour mood. He cast daggers of contempt at Tariq's retreating form. The young man was completely oblivious to the situation. The Cold War meant nothing to his generation. What did he know of a city split in two by a wall, living beneath the cloud of possible nuclear war, the paranoia of always second-guessing active measures. Not to mention what effect the presence of a Russian officer would have on Lucas. How would the man function knowing that a comrade of his former captors was welcomed on the Grid?

Ruth stirred beside Harry. Perfidious woman. Where was her loyalty? Talking to Towers without his consent. It was bad enough that Towers had felt he could go around Harry. He would brook no insubordination especially in front of the Russians. The levers of command must be maintained. Ruth made to leave. He was not done with her.

"My office. Now."

The sharp intake of Ruth's breath reached his ears. She would be wise to gird herself. He did not look to see if she had followed him to his office. He knew that she would.

"Close the door."

Ruth obeyed his command, a look of dread on her face. Harry abjured the comfort of his chair, deciding instead to lean against the desk. Their previous conversation had left him unmoored, unable to wholly settle down and concentrate. He crossed his arms, taking a moment to compose himself. He watched her squirm. Good. His eyes narrowed with the steely focus of a prosecutor pinning the defendant to the stand.

"Do you think I'm obstructive?"

Ruth held his gaze, refusing to answer, possessing the intelligence to sense that his question was a trap. Her silence fueled his anger. He forged on.

"Pompous?"

She looked down at the floor, but one raised brow betrayed her answer.

"A dinosaur?" he demanded.

"Harry," she spoke calmly in an attempt to mollify him. "What's this about?"

"Those were the words that the Russian Ambassador used to describe me. And the Home Secretary concurred. I wondered if you were in agreement with them?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Surely, you must have discussed my attitude when you talked to him?"

"We didn't discuss you, Harry. Towers asked my opinion on the Paroxocybin, and I said it would be beneficial to know what intelligence the Russians have."

"So you suggested we invite an FSB officer onto the Grid."

"Of course not," she refuted. "Towers misinterpreted my words. Obviously, he's playing a political gambit, hoping to sweeten relations with Russia."

"Exactly. That is why we share intelligence judiciously. To make sure it isn't used for political gain."

"I know that, Harry."

"It has taken me years to master that particular skill, and yet here you are already proficient in it."

"I do possess a modicum of discretion."

"Where others are concerned, apparently, because it didn't occur to you to tell me about your conversation with Towers. I'm certain he is very appreciative of your 'discretion'."

"You're not asking that I run every conversation by you."

"No, only the ones that might give people the impression that I have no idea what my team is doing. As you can imagine, it doesn't instil confidence in my leadership abilities."

Ruth shuffled her feet, the wind of defiance falling from her sails.

"I didn't think the fallout from the conversation would be quite so dramatic."

"It must be nice to know that your words carry such weight."

Ruth narrowed her eyes, setting her target in sight. "At least with someone, yes, it is."

Her last sentence snapped the one remaining string of restraint that held Harry's anger in check. He pushed himself away from his desk and launched himself in her direction, coming to stand millimetres away from her face. Ruth blinked but held her ground. He would commend her for her strength if she was not using it against him.

"You talked to the Home Secretary behind my back," Harry hissed. "Countermanded my order to spare Aisbek on the ground, and now we have an FSB officer on the Grid. Our relationship does not give you the liberty to question my decisions and reverse my commands."

"Relationship?" she asked with bewilderment. "What relationship?"

Her question momentarily derailed him. Harry struggled to get back on track.

"Association then," he amended, waving his hand, dismissing the detail. "The point is we cannot continue like this."

"I agree. I believe I mentioned that earlier."

"Good. Then in the future, I can depend on you to support my decisions and run any outside conversations through me."

"I'm not some sort of marionette with strings to pull."

"I didn't say that you were. You just agreed-"

"I agreed that we cannot go on like this."

It dawned on him that they were having two different conversations. And if left to its current trajectory, she would take it down a path that he did not wish to tread.

"We stick to work," he cautioned. "Remember?".

"That's the problem. We need a working relationship. I mean, a way of working together. With proper boundaries."

Her tone of infinite patience riled him, leaving him feeling patronised. He was not a schoolboy brought up before the Head Mistress, he was the Head of Counterterrorism. It stoked his frustration, he wanted her to be as outraged by developments as he was. A bloody Russian officer was on the Grid as a direct result of her actions. She should be suing for his favour, not arguing with him. He didn't have time to spend on the minutiae of their interactions.

"How about this for a boundary? I'm your boss and you are my analyst."

Ruth's mouth clamped tight, her lips drawing into a straight line, her spine stretching as she stood taller. The words had left his mouth before his brain could weigh the consequences of their impact. He didn't care. She was his subordinate. The integrity of the team needed to be maintained. If boundaries were an issue, it was fortuitous that she had declined his proposal.

"Are you saying that you don't trust my judgement?" she asked.

"You have certainly demonstrated that you don't trust mine."

"I'm just suggesting that you may want to consider that your decisions might be tainted by past experiences."

"Isn't that what experience is for? To inform decisions. Or would you rather I depend on emotion." He directed the words straight at her.

"That's my point," she said, her voice eerily level. "I think that your recent decisions have been driven by emotion."

It was a slap in the face. The ability to remove emotion from his decision-making process had always been a source of pride. Compartmentalisation was his default setting, the cornerstone of his character. Granted, anger may have coloured his reasoning in the past but he had overcome such hotheaded tendencies. For her to insinuate that his rationale was now ruled by something as capricious as emotion was the epitome of insult. A ball of fire formed in his stomach, rising to his chest. If he was not careful, it would erupt into fury and only serve to illustrate her point. He gave a slow release of air through his nostrils.

"Go," Harry commanded, turning his back on her. He moved to the other side of his desk. "Lucas and I need to figure out a way to deal with this incursion."

There was no pause in Ruth's departure. The door swished open and closed. Harry yanked out his chair and planted himself in his seat. He would not admit that he had erred in letting Aibek escape, he would not apologise for his mistrust of the Russians, and he would not concede that he was stung by her betrayal. His fingers curled around his unsuspecting computer mouse, and he absently tapped it against the top of his desk. And he most certainly would not acknowledge the pang of jealousy caused by the fact that Ruth had sided with Towers over him. What was next - a date? Harry squeezed the mouse. His current mood was in no way a result of her rejection. He was the master of his passions. The walls of his professional world needed reinforcement. If she wanted boundaries he would give her boundaries.

.

A sharp gust of wind swept along the river, nipping at all who travelled along its banks. Harry walked at a steady pace, impervious to the sting of the elements. He had said his piece, he could do no more. Staring straight ahead, he resisted the temptation to look back and see if she had followed him. In his mind's eye, he saw her standing on the spot, watching as he faded into the distance. She was as stubborn and tenacious as he. Even at the end of the operation, she had still questioned his last decision, reminding him that he might lose his job; the consequence of revealing the location of the Poroxocybin. It didn't matter, it had been the right move. He trusted Kirby, knew the mettle of the man. Kirby's daughter had kept their pact, even though it had resulted in her death. Kirby would do the same. Leave the man her legacy. It was little compensation but it was the least that Harry could do to make up for the man's loss.

Harry inhaled a deep breath, a weight lifting from his shoulders. He had unburdened a lie and in doing so had set himself free. For the first time in weeks, he had made a sound, rational decision. It meant that the prognosis for his judgement was improving; his instinct, though shaken, still had a faint pulse. A measure of confidence filled his steps. The Paroxocybin had been kept from enemy hands, the operation a success. Admittedly, there had been collateral damage. The girl, of course. Aibek. The Russian officer. A slow smile spread across Harry's face. But that was the price that needed to be paid.

The river coursed along beside him, constant, uncaring, wholly absorbed in its timeless tide. It made no matter to the river what Harry had accomplished. It existed outside of the mortal coil. Pedestrian traffic streamed around him, unaware that the theft of a deadly nerve agent had been thwarted. Harry glanced at the faces of passing strangers. No one looked at him. There was no one to share in his success, no one to congratulate him on outwitting the Russians, no medal for saving the world. Not even a friend to buy him a celebratory pint. Who could he tell? A hollow victory indeed. Harry dipped his head.

The hair on the back of his neck pricked up, and in that moment he knew that she was moving. It may have been a slight hitch in the breeze, or the pull of his collar, whatever the reason he sensed that she was walking behind him. She kept her distance, as she did in his dreams, not quite present, but always hovering on the periphery. He usually took it for granted that she trailed behind him; a spaniel, Juliet had called her. If she had known Ruth as he did, she would certainly have changed her characterization. On other occasions, he had relished the power of that dynamic, but today it carved out his chest. Walking alone was no way to travel.

Harry slowed his pace. He wanted more. There must be a place between colleagues and lovers, an island where they could both meet. Thoughts of broken walls and scattered boundaries filled his head. He corralled his thoughts, the heady days of romance had slipped between his fingers. They needed to find a way to work together. Don't turn around. Keep moving, keep it professional.

He turned around.

As Harry suspected she was a few paces behind him, head bowed against the sharp wind, hands buried in the pocket of her coat. Ruth looked up and stopped abruptly. The width of a paving stone stood between them, but it felt more like a chasm waiting for one of them to cross it. Thoughts played across the fine lines of her face, never quite transferring to her tongue. Harry waited. Why was she following him? Had she seen the error of her ways? Ready to admit the merits of his character? He discarded those questions in favour of a different one.

"Where are you going? he asked.

"Thames House."

"We're done for the day."

"I've left my bag there." Hands still in her pockets, she gave a self-effacing shrug. "Besides, I've no place else to go."

Harry tilted his head, remembering their conversation from a few weeks previous. "Everything alright at home?"

"Oh, yes, yes," she assured him. "Everything is fine with Beth. Better than I expected."

The news that the two flatmates were getting along was strangely disheartening. Harry still harboured the fantasy that Ruth's living situation would become so untenable that she would have no choice but to come to him. He studied her, wondering if their conversation had reached its natural conclusion and if he should resume his walk. Before he could decide, Ruth took a step toward him, the gap between them slightly diminished.

"Pactum Serva."

He looked at her trying to puzzle out her words.

"Keep the faith," she explained.

"I know what it means." But he did not know why she was saying them to him. An oath, a blessing, a curse? The workings of her mind eluded him.

"I think we have something like that," she continued.

"Yes. It's called Regnum Defende."

"No, I mean between you and me. A belief in something that is greater than the sum of our parts. And we would do anything to preserve it."

Harry's arms hung by his side, his fingers sliding against each other as he acknowledged her observation. It was true, how many times had he justified the price in order to gain the result. Defend the realm, whatever the cost. He knew that she would do the same. He let her continue.

"I was part of the lie too, Harry. I sat beside you and let a man believe that his daughter had broken her bond, forsaken her honour."

"Sometimes you have to do what's necessary," he added. "As I recall, you were the one that pointed that out."

"I know." Her head hung heavy with remorse.

"I didn't do it lightly," he assured her. "There is no greater grief than thinking you have been betrayed by the one you love."

He was speaking of her, and she knew it.

"I keep thinking about how Agamemnon sacrificed his daughter, Iphigenia, to win the Trojan War. I suppose daughters are more expendable than sons."

"That's not always true."

A self-deprecating smile flitted over her lips, and she glanced out over the river. She kept her gaze focused in that direction. "As we were sitting with Kirby in the interrogation room, feeding him false information, I wondered …" She took a breath, gathering the courage to finish the sentence. "I wondered if you would sacrifice your daughter?"

The back of Harry's throat clenched, and his tongue grew heavy. How could he answer? The question was an exercise in semantics; it came from a world of black and white, bereft of context.

"Sacrifice doesn't necessarily mean death," he chose his words carefully. "In some respects, I would say that I did sacrifice my life with Catherine."

Ruth nodded, her head bobbing, though not necessarily in agreement. She was well aware that Harry was trying to slip through a loophole. Her head rose and her eyes met his, and in that second Harry knew that he was now in the defendant's chair. He sensed her next question and braced himself.

"Would you sacrifice me?"

Plain and unadorned, the question was asked without emotion or fanfare. That did not stop it from being supremely loaded with snares and pitfalls; say yes and be seen as a heartless bastard, say no and appear weak. It was not a conversation to be had in the middle of a crowded walkway. They should be in a pub, alcohol warming their bones, sitting beside a burning hearth that invited such intimacies. Or in a down-filled bed, protected by the counterpane, the strength of his arms shielding her from the invasion of such thoughts. But those locations were not readily available, and by the look of it, appeared to be out of reach for the foreseeable future. Harry's head swivelled as he looked for an appropriate spot. He cupped Ruth's elbow and gently steered her away from the throng. He drew her up next to a wall, away from the edge of the river. In the enclave, the wind could not so easily find them. The stone was covered with a fine grime, a tag of graffiti marring the surface. Not the most romantic of places but it did offer them a modicum of privacy. How many other almost-lovers had stood on that spot, talking, arguing, yearning for something frustratingly out of their grasp. Not knowing what to do with his hand, Harry left it resting on her elbow. The collar of her coat was turned up against the chill. He wanted to take the fabric in his fingers and pull her near, feel the softness of her lips, silence all this morbid discussion. She had told him earlier it was not the time for self-reflection, and yet here they stood, positing on hypotheticals. He searched for a way to evade her question. The years of her absence were still fresh in his heart, surely that must count as a sacrifice.

"I gave you up once already."

"We both did that - to save each other. When Kirby had the chance to save his daughter's life, he refused to give up the location of the Paroxcybin"

"You're not my daughter." His words were gruff, bordering on dismissive. It was the other side of the coin that he did not want to visit. A fear that his role would be reduced to nothing more than a benevolent father figure. He had fulfilled that with Zoe and Jo; he would become that to Ruth. He could think of nothing to deter her, and she carried on with her questioning.

"You were willing to sacrifice….."

Harry's hand fell from her elbow. She didn't need to finish the sentence. They both knew that she meant her son. His choices of that day would always cast a shadow between them. The muscles of Harry's stomach knotted.

"Ruth…"

"I'd like to believe that if it meant saving lives, you would let me go. I wouldn't want to think that I was any more valuable than anyone who had gone before me."

"It's a mute question," he argued in a fierce whisper. "It would never happen. I would find a way to preserve both. I don't think you know the depths of my cunning."

"I think I do." A knowing smile graced her lips, and then quickly disappeared. "I may not agree with everything you do," she said. "But I will always stand behind you. You know that."

"I don't want you to stand behind me."

Ruth blinked at him in surprise, the sentiment a sharp contrast to his earlier diatribe in his office. Harry lowered his head, his face coming closer to hers.

"I want you to stand beside me. And not just in an interrogation room. Out here. Among the living."

Ruth's gaze fell down to the lapel of his coat. "Please don't ask the impossible of me."

"Forgive me if I ask the impossible of you, for you are asking the impossible of me. To work together, after all that has happened between us." His voice dropped to a rasp, ripe with the air of intimate persuasion. "We're more than that.

"I know. I know. " She raised her eyes to him. "I know who you are, Harry."

"Do you Ruth? You have only ever seen me on the Grid. I'm asking you to know me away from all this."

"I know you," she assured him, her words wrapped with conviction. " Your code, the rules you play by, your sense of honour. That's why I would expect nothing less of you than to sacrifice me if the situation warranted it."

Where was this coming from? She was no Cassandra, privy to a coming catastrophe unknown to mortals. "You can't know what is going to happen."

"We all have our time. Isn't it better to go knowing that you have saved someone?"

Harry leaned forward, his hand returning to her elbow. Her arm moved in sympathy, her hand rising to hold his forearm. They swayed for a moment, relishing the mutual contact, the first made in weeks. The breeze lifted her scent to his nostril, teasing him. Her cheek so close he could feel the warmth. Her voice was low, inviting him in.

"If anything ….if we were to…"

Harry closed his eyes, wanting her words to stop. Wanting the world to stop. Let them be the last ones standing. Ruth leaned against him, using him for support. Her lips moved, her whispered words floating to his ear.

"If we were to be together, it would make any such decision that much harder."

Harry opened his eyes and looked at her. Her eyes met his, silently pleading for him to agree. The knot in his stomach dissolved only to reform in his throat. She had uttered the words of a true spook. He had expressed it himself. No sacrifice was too great. Slowly, his hand fell from her elbow. She followed his action, releasing his arm. The chattering of passing strangers filtered into their space, prying into the sanctuary. Aware of their closeness, they stepped back from each other. The conversation had resolved little, at least to Harry's liking, but it had illuminated her thoughts.. It wasn't a rejection, it was a pact. An agreement to let the other one go. She was right, any deeper emotional involvement would only create a host of agonies should the situation arise. The air shifted, a kissing wind from the west, meant for everyone but him. Harry swallowed, dissolving the knot in his throat.

"We had better go get your bag."

"Yes," she nodded.

Harry moved away from the wall, giving up the communion that they had found there. He waited for a moment, casting his gaze out over the water. She came and stood beside him. Her place, her rightful place. Without a word, they each stepped forward, compasses pointing in the same direction. Looking straight ahead, Harry walked back to Thames House, taking small comfort that at least on that short journey Ruth was by his side.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 - One Piece is a Victory

The pen stopped in mid signature, poised over his last name. Harry tilted his head, senses on alert, listening. For what, he did not know. Something was off. He carefully laid the pen down on his desk and sat back in his chair. The springs creaked softly as he considered the source of his unease. It might only be the nudge of instinct warning him to stay on alert about the Chinese, the CIA, indigestion. Whatever it was, he could not remain seated. He needed to move. Rarely did he leave his office without a specific destination in mind, but he felt compelled to walk across the Grid. His journey took him past Ruth's desk. Her chair sat empty. Odd, considering the events that had recently transpired. A twinge of concern ran through him. He suppressed it. No doubt she was somewhere close, diligently ferreting out intelligence. Harry's feet moved of their own recourse, taking him to the entrance of the corridor. He squinted in the dimness, the quality of light in the hall significantly reduced from that of the Grid proper. Any illumination from the recessed sconces was instantly absorbed into the pores of the concrete. It was not a place that invited one to linger. It was a perfunctory passageway meant to carry people from one part of the Grid to another. A linear path to most, but not, as it would appear, to Ruth. Head down, shoulders rising, she walked in one direction and then pivoted in another, pacing from wall to wall, a ball bouncing off of the bumpers of a pinball machine. A buzz of electricity crackled around her. Harry frowned, dismissing the impossible. He could not have heard her agitation in his office. He shook his head and took a wary step.

"Ruth?"

"Oh!" She started at his voice and turned to him. "Is everything alright?"

"I could ask the same of you."

"I'm just finding it hard to settle in one place."

"You've had a bit of a shock."

Harry slowly walked toward her, keeping his voice purposefully low. He had seen her in a similar state, years before. He had been cautious in his approach then, he decided it would be wise to do so now. Even though Ruth's pacing had come to a halt, her body quivered, tuned to a note heard only by her. Hyper-arousal, the by-product of stress. Best not to make any sudden moves. Stopping at what he deemed to be a suitable distance, Harry casually leaned against the wall. He kept his breathing even, hoping a subdued demeanor would serve to calm her. His strategy proved effective; Ruth gravitated towards him, settling into the spot beside him. Her hands, unable to settle, moved from picking at her shirt to pulling on her skirt. Harry put his hands into his trouser pockets, tacitly inviting her to contain her movements. Her hands slowed and came to rest at her side. Though she may have settled on the surface, Harry suspected that inwardly she was still wound like a spring. It was only natural to be on edge after such an experience, he had been in her position many times. Though his method of coping usually involved alcohol and not pacing in a hallway. Ruth was made of a more delicate material than him. He needed to talk her through it. He gave the corridor a quick sweep, gauging the likelihood of any interruptions. The hall remained quiet. Harry spoke softly.

"Why did you go with her?"

"She took my hand."

Ruth answered his question without hesitation, as if accompanying a stranger was the most logical decision. Would she follow anyone who took her hand? Harry's fingers curled around the set of keys kept in his pocket. He could reach out to her right now and take her hand. It wouldn't seem entirely unnatural, it could be interpreted as a sign of support. Would she go with him? Follow him anywhere? He pushed his keys deeper into his pocket.

"You should have refused to go. It was an unnecessary risk."

"What could I do? I didn't have a choice. The CIA were treating Cheng like she was a package. I was all she had."

"It's never wise to get emotionally involved with an asset."

"Well, she's not our asset, is she?" Ruth counted tartly.

Harry kept his voice level. "You know what I mean."

"I can't believe I let go of her hand. Stupid. Stupid. I should have held onto it when we got out of the car. There was just so much noise and confusion."

"You said it yourself; we couldn't have known it was a trap. We were set up by the Chinese."

"I think Beth is kicking herself over Kai."

"Well she should be."

"She's trying her best. How was she to know he was misleading us."

"Are you defending Miss Bailey?" Harry shifted on the wall. "Only a few short weeks ago you wanted to hang her out to dry."

"People can change their minds, Harry."

He looked at her, biting back the urge to ask if she had changed her mind about him. Her eyes danced as they flitted over him, and for a moment he thought that he was the cause of their spark. But he knew better. It was the product of adrenaline. The electric jolt of life that came after a brush with chaos; the exhilaration of cheating death. A flush of pink coloured her cheeks, the lines of her face erased by a heightened vibrancy. He marvelled at it, took a moment to capture the picture in his mind, and filed it away in his memory. His chest expanded, swelling with pride. She was his officer, a product of his making. Her past forays into the field had been fraught with calamity, but on this mission she had risen to the occasion. She had demonstrated ingenuity in finding Amphitrite, remained calm while a CIA officer held a gun to her head, and deftly translated the word quark into Mandarin. He should compliment her on her work, build up her confidence. Her eyes met his and a tiny smile graced her lips. She knew. Her chest moved rapidly with the satisfaction of her achievement and the unspoken approval of her boss. He wondered at what point she would crash.

"I had a meeting with the Home Secretary," said Harry. "The CIA were handling Amphitrite all along. Towers has just decided to share that nugget of information with us now."

"Judicious intelligence sharing."

Harry hummed in agreement, acknowledging her reference to his own caveat about sharing information with politicians. Harry well understood how information travelled both ways, but it irked him when details were not freely shared by the denizens of Whitehall. It undermined national security. It undermined his sense of authority. He abhorred not being in control.

Frustrated that his thoughts had turned to Towers, Harry absently brushed his hand through his hair. His fingers played with the uneven line at the nape of his neck. It needed a trim, but he never had the time for such tonsorial pursuits. It made no matter, there was no one he needed to impress. Ruth's eyes followed the movement of his hand. Aware of her gaze, Harry let his hand rest on the back of his neck. He eyed her curiously, strangely self conscious under her scrutiny. As an experiment, he tilted his head. Ruth mimicked him, tilting her head to one side and raising her hand to the back of her neck. She found an errant strand of hair and twisted it around her finger. Her hair was mussed from her ordeal, beguilingly so, as if she had just come from her bed. He must be careful not to let his thoughts stray into dangerous territory, though it was proving difficult. The high of adrenaline was addictive, it was equally intoxicating to be around. A twinge of jealousy pricked him, envious that she had been in the centre of the action while he sat on the side lines. He wanted to taste the experience, have her share it with him. Was there any reason why more together could not entail other pursuits? An innocent meal perhaps. A dinner in an understated restaurant, free of trappings. Or a drink? He would ask her. When the time was right.

Harry returned his hand to his pocket. He subtly shifted his position against the wall, moving himself closer to her.

"You're very lucky. You put yourself in unnecessary danger."

"I know. After the flash, when the lights went out, I thought I was dead."

"I thought you were dead too," Harry murmured under his breath. Ruth met his eyes, his whispered words audible to her.

At the news of the explosion, Harry had experienced the near approximation of a heart attack. His thoughts had immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. Ruth lay dead, a shattered shell on the cold floor of a car park. Overcoming the initial shock, Harry wasted no time, immediately barking at Tariq to find out what had happened. Thankfully, Lucas had promptly called with an update. Fear and worry had turned to anger. Anger that she had put herself in that position, quickly supplanted by anger at himself. He had sanctioned the mission and allowed her to go undercover as an interpreter to QMK. It was his fault that she had been hijacked by the CIA and dragged into an ambush in an underground car park.

"God, it was loud," Ruth continued. "My ears are still ringing. Not so much from the explosion but from all the car alarms."

Ruth ran a finger over the shell of her ear, massaging tiny circles over the skin. Harry followed her with his eyes, pulling himself back from the hypnotic movement.

"You need to go home and rest."

"I can't do that. We've got to get Cheng back."

"You've been through alot. It never hurts to take a break. Collect one's senses."

"I can still taste metal in my mouth."

On her return to the Grid, Ruth had trailed a cloud of smoke and ammonia. Harry had stood beside her, the familiar scent of danger rising from the fibres of her clothes. Images had surfaced in Harry's memory, darkened alleys, whispered code names, the tap of running footsteps, the remnants of the distant past. A longing for a different time had washed over him. An age when the enemy was known and not hidden behind a circuit board.

As he stood beside Ruth, he noticed that the smell of smoke had diminished. Any residual odour now mingled with the scent he associated with her. Ruth had somehow managed to procure a different set of clothes, an ensemble that he had never seen before. Harry speculated that she may have borrowed them from Beth. It was a shirt of blue denim; he was certain he had one the exact same colour hanging in his closet. And if pressed, he might admit that he may have imagined her in it once or twice. The top few buttons were undone, bordering on provocative. But it was not the state of her buttons that tantalised him the most. It was her necklace; a chain that he had not noticed earlier. A white shard, like the tooth of some prehistoric fish, hung from the links, the tip of the fossil pointing down to her cleavage. She had possessed a similar necklace once, adorned with similar such trinkets. A necklace which had often caused his eyes to stray down to areas forbidden by managerial practices.

Ruth noticed his gaze and nervously raised her hand. "What is it? Is it my lip?" She lightly pressed a finger against her lip.

"No it's fine," he assured her, momentarily mesmerised by her lips. "But you might want to have it seen too."

She nodded. Her eyes moved rapidly, a movie playing in her mind. The muscles of her face fell and her mouth opened with silent realisation. Harry surmised the cause. The dopamine that had coursed through her system during the crisis had melted away, replaced by the acute awareness of what could have happened. Ruth slumped against the wall next to him. The sidelight cast an aura around her, giving her the ephemeral quality of a ghost. She studied her hand, the muscles shaking with shock. Harry edged closer, working up the courage to take it and soothe her. She reached up to the charm on her necklace.

"I could have died."

"But you didn't."

Her body canted toward him, searching for comfort. It would be perfectly within his remit to put his arm around her, a gesture of support for one of his officers. Harry pursed his lips. She was in a vulnerable place; he should tread lightly with any sort of physical contact. Besides, in a hall on the Grid there was no privacy. They would be caught in a compromising position. She would reflect upon it when she was more herself and conclude that the open corridor was no place for affection. It belayed weakness. Harry drove his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Why don't you go back to your desk. I'll see if I can scrounge you up a tea."

"No, it's alright," she declined with a faint smile. She knew he would never make such an offer to anyone else on the Grid. Only her.

"Something a bit stronger perhaps." He gave her a coaxing smile. Fate would damn him for suggesting alcohol as a means of escape, but who could blame him for trying to conscript a companion for his habit.

"I'll just go back and sit down for a moment."

A wise choice, he silently conceded. He pushed himself away from the wall. He would find an opportunity to ask her out for a proper drink. Until that time, he would move heaven and earth to keep her out of harm's way.

.

His breath came in short, staccato bursts. The walk up the stairs required more effort than usual; the exertion causing Harry's heart to thump rapidly in his chest. He paused on a step to collect himself. What on earth was happening to him? A sign of the times, he begrudgingly concluded. Not that he had ever bounded up the stairs, but as with everything else, the task did not come as easily as it once had. At Harry's yearly physical, the doctor had advised him to drink less, exercise more, lose a few stone. If he were to do all that, Harry argued, the medical establishment would be out of a job. Harry had made a few concessions to his health. He had given up tobacco. It had not been a conscious decision. Like his other addictions it had fallen out of favour, resurfacing now and then as a craving but nothing to be acted upon. The occasional cigar at the Club didn't really count in the grand scheme of things. As for exercise, he was too busy. There were days when his only activity consisted of jumping through the hoops of bureaucracy. Admittedly, he should ease up on the drinking but how else was he to get through this bloody job. The only way to stop drinking would be to quit the position, an event which was not in the immediate future. Soon, Harry whispered letting the stairwell in on his plans, soon the day would come when he would resign.

The metal door gave a soft groan as Harry pushed it open. Daylight hit him, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the unaccustomed brightness. He inhaled a deep breath, pulling the fresh air into his overworked lungs. Perhaps that was the solution to his lack of endurance, a taste of the outside world. He stopped when he noticed Ruth standing by the railing. What was she doing up here? There had been no premonition alerting him to her presence this time. Harry felt a pang of disappointment. His senses, along with his stamina, had forsaken him.

Ruth gave no indication that she was aware of his presence. Wrapped in the black folds of her overcoat, she hunched inward, wings pulled around her for protection. A far cry from the manic energy she had displayed earlier in the corridor. Harry crossed and stood beside her, his mind cycling through the reasons for her change in demeanour. Before he could conclude anything, Ruth spoke without looking at him.

"I think I understand why you come up here."

Harry waited, choosing not to prod her analysis of his actions. He was certain he only came to the roof out of habit. Ruth gestured out over the city.

"Up here, you can see everything. This is one building amongst so many. The city goes on and on. It's all about perspective, isn't it?"

Harry tilted his head in agreement. "Are you looking for perspective on something?"

A deep sigh preceded her words. "I just got off the phone with Beth. Kai walked back into the Chinese embassy."

"I suspected he might do as much."

Ruth turned to him, a pointed expression on her face as if he had deliberately withheld his suspicions from her. "How would you know?"

"I only know the unpredictability of the human condition. We can't presume to know what's in another man's mind." He looked at her, recalling the many times he had misread her thinking.

"It doesn't make any sense. We gave him the opportunity to choose freedom but he went right back to the very people who will torture him."

"We gave him an opportunity. It's up to him to decide his own fate."

"Kai is back with the Chinese and Cheng is with the CIA, so basically nothing has changed."

"We're down an asset in the Chinese embassy."

"Kai wasn't really an asset. They were feeding him information. We're back to where we started."

Harry leaned on the railing. Indeed, they were back to where they started. On a rooftop where they had spoken of disparate topics, the finding of bombs and the idea of dinner. He looked out over the city. Perhaps this was the time to ask her out for a drink. Drown her disappointment over human nature in a pint. He rocked on his heels, summoning the courage to voice the invitation, weighing the stakes, the odds of rejection. It had been a long and trying day, surely she would be amenable to such a suggestion. He could feel her shifting beside him. He sensed her turning, her eyes following his gaze out over the skyline.

"Cheng asked if I had any children."

The bottom fell out from Harry's stomach. The window of opportunity crashed closed. Any chance of the conversation moving onto a more congenial topic vanished. Harry braced himself as Ruth continued.

"I told her no."

Harry expelled a low rasp of breath. He had no idea how to wade through the minefield she had just exposed, any misstep on his part would inevitably lead to disaster. In situations like these, he had alway found the best course of action to be silence, He would open up a space for her. If she wanted to reveal her thoughts, he would listen.

"I tell myself that I said I didn't have children because I'm an Intelligence Officer. The first rule is never reveal personal information."

"That's a good instinct to have." It was one of his rules. It had made his professional life easier, sometimes at the cost of his personal one.

"I feel like I betrayed Nico, my entire life on Cyprus. And in doing that I somehow betrayed part of myself."

Still at a loss, Harry remained silent, only giving her a nod of encouragement.

"Have you ever felt that way?" she asked. "Like you have killed off a part of yourself?"

Cut if off, block it out, seal it away. He had done it so many times he wasn't sure if any pieces of his original self remained. There was a kernel buried deep inside him. His salvation. It was a constant battle to protect that one last piece.

"Sometimes it has to be done. As long as you hold onto that one piece. The piece inside you that no one else can touch. It keeps you constant." He had given her the same advice before, he reiterated it. "You have to hold on."

"Hold on," she absently echoed his words. "Cheng said to me if you are valuable enough to someone you can never be free. " She turned her body, drawing herself parallel to Harry's shoulder. "How valuable am I to you, Harry? As an Analyst, as an Intelligence Officer."

It was a leading question. Prudence told him not to engage; that she was fishing for an answer to make a point. He needed to steer her thoughts away from such thinking. "You're not a commodity, Ruth," he told her firmly.

"But I can never be free, can I?" she challenged.

He turned to face her, exasperated by her stubbornness, her inability to move on, her unwillingness to create a future with him. "Some people don't want to be free."

"Is that what you think?" Her voice was rust on metal. "That I'm letting it own me? The loss of George? Nico?"

"That's not what I'm saying." It was, but he would never say it aloud to her.

"You think I want to be held hostage by the past."

Anger flickered in Harry, shortening his breath. Yes, that's exactly what he thought. It was far easier to remain in the past than work towards the future. The muscles of his arms tightened with the electric impulse to grab her and press her against the rail. Voice his thoughts and sear them into her. The iron fretwork was an unreliable safeguard, if it broke they would both tumble over the edge. But it would serve his point, it was precisely where she stood. Couldn't she see how her refusal to deal with the past pushed her toward the edge. How close she was to the same abyss that had swallowed Tom and taken Adam? Harry placed his hand on the railing, grabbing onto the metal for support. The iron grounded him. Anger would only escalate the situation. He searched for words to de-escalate the situation.

"Guilt is a heavy burden; it serves no purpose to carry it."

"Guilt means I have a conscience," she spat, the insinuation being that he did not possess such a redeeming quality.

If Harry had known that her interaction with Cheng would lead to such an unravelling he would never have sanctioned it. Ruth had felt a personal responsibility towards the woman, always a slippery slope with an asset. He had allowed Ruth to oversee the last conversation with the Cheng as a courtesy, an acknowledgement of their connection. It had exposed a crack, he could see it growing. He needed to negate the damage. He needed to remain calm, remember his position as her superior. He summoned his Head of Section voice.

"If you need some time-

"I've dealt with it. I'm…." She inhaled a shaky breath. "I am dealing with it."

Her voice was tight and terse telegraphing that she was not dealing with it, at least not in any manner that was leading to healthy results. Alarm bells sounded. Experience told him that when an officer argued that their psyche was whole, it was usually shattered.

"You don't have to carry this by yourself."

"No," she snapped, a little too quickly. "I thought you would….I thought I could…"

Her thoughts remained incomplete, the sentence left in the air. What would he do? He knew what he wanted to do. If given the chance he would break the chains that held her. But He had no idea how to accomplish such a task. Because when everything was stripped away, there was one inescapable truth; he was part of the problem. A spiraling timeline of love and loss weaving through their lives, tangled in on itself. It would take more than one lifetime to unwind.

The air moved and Ruth shivered, whether from the wind or emotion he could not tell. A broken bird that needed mending. The tools eluded him. All he had was the command of his office.

"It's within my authority to order you to stand down."

"You wouldn't."

"Or you could voluntarily take some time for yourself."

"That's not what I need. You don't understand, I need to work. It's all I have. And if that's all I have…" Her voice cracked with the effort to swallow a sob.

"Ruth…" Harry pleaded. If he was not careful he would lose her as he had lost his other officers. "It's just as you said. We need to put things in perspective."

The words sounded pat to his ears. He suspected that they were of little use, but he had to pull her back from wherever she was going.

"Yes," she agreed flatly. "You're right."

Ruth turned away, leaving Harry a glimpse of her hardened profile. She had not conceded to him. The energy that had fuelled her outrage turned inward. All of his plans to circumvent an argument had produced an unexpected result. Instead of seeing reason, she had closed down. She pulled her black coat tighter around her body, shutting him out. Any further conversation instantly curtailed. He had not solved anything.

Ruth gave him no opportunity to remedy the situation. With a little nod of her head, she walked away, leaving only the lead weight of her silence behind. Harry ran an exhausted hand over his mouth. He wished he had kept it there during the entire conversation, for he feared he had only made the situation worse. He closed his fingers into a fist and tapped it against the railing. If he had taken her hand would she have followed him? His fist grew tighter, holding on to the piece of him, the piece of her. Unwilling to entertain the thought that the only way to hold on would be to let go.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 - The Greatest Hazard of all is Losing One's Self

Madness, it has been said, is the act of doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. The promise that one more attempt would produce the desired reward. It was perfectly understandable why hope remained evergreen regarding the latest round of Mid-East talks, but for Harry, the odds of a peaceful agreement ranked with the possibility of Ruth Evershed changing her mind about him. Possible, but highly unlikely. Why keep on trying? What was the point? In the art of negotiation, walking away from the table was sometimes the only way to break a stalemate.

Images flickered on the large screen at the front of the room, the remote clicking as Ruth cycled through different photos. With a dispassionate eye, Harry watched as she led the briefing. It was the type of intelligence at which she excelled. He admired her ability to parse down the current mid-east political climate and the current players that inhabited it, while peppering her comments with insights into their personalities. Though his eyes were on her, he did not notice how her hair curved along her neck, tickling her throat, grazing the tender spot beneath her ear. He did not notice the dark colour of her blouse against her skin or the delicate chain that rested on her collarbone. He did not notice the soothing tone of her voice, or the slight hitch in her breath before she spoke. No, he had not noticed any of those things. At least, the conscious part of his mind told him so. The darker aspects of his character had drunk it all in, feeding on it without his knowledge. His mind sat slightly detached from the briefing, preoccupied with the prospects of the talks and a meeting with an old friend. The call from Levi Cohen had been welcomed, and Harry had not hesitated for a moment to offer his presence as a show of moral support. In fact, Harry had jumped at the opportunity. It was a reprieve from the intensity of the Grid, a chance to be in the field for a relatively benign operation. A few days away would clear his mind.

The notion of a retreat had quietly percolated in the back of Harry's thoughts for quite some time, the idea of briefly stepping away from the Grid in order to weigh his options. As far as he could see, his only recourse was to remove himself from the presence which clouded his thinking. It was indeed a form of madness to pursue her, to constantly put himself in a position of rejection. They were both damaged goods, he more than her. She at least had a chance of healing. That was why he had put in a recommendation for her to attend more counselling sessions. He assumed Ruth had been amenable to the arrangement for he had heard no protest from her. As for his own battered soul, the grand plan for healing was to leave the Service entirely. He was still assembling the courage to embark on that route. Until that time, he would put some distance between himself and Ruth, leave the Grid for a day or two. He had only lacked the proper excuse, but now fortune had delivered one to him.

The briefing over, Harry rose from his chair, having played a minor role in the proceedings, interjecting only to add a few sentences about his relationship with Levi. Not wanting to waste any time, Harry made a straight line for the corridor. Even at his hurried pace, he could hear the rhythmic clicking of a pair of boots behind him. He did not slow down as he usually did in order to allow her to catch up and walk with him. He was determined to leave the Grid as soon as possible. Lucas would brief Beth and Dmitri on their Home Office legends; there was no reason for him to stay. Pulling out his mobile, Harry concentrated on a text, giving the impression that he was absorbed in its contents. As he exited the corridor, the tap of boots faded, and he presumed that Ruth had changed direction, heading to her station. Harry pocketed his phone, satisfied that he had escaped a conversation with his Analyst.

Having reached the sanctity of his office, Harry absently reached behind him to close the door. A set of fingers wrapped around the edge of the panel, halting his action. Surprised, he turned and saw Ruth. He eyed her warily. She pushed the door open and he stepped back.

"I should book us a room," Ruth said matter of factly. "At the hotel."

Harry blinked, stunned by her proposal. And more than a little intrigued. "What for?"

"We need a comms room on site."

Harry silently laughed at his initial assumption that she had meant a room for them. "It's a small operation. Beth and Dimitri are only there to babysit."

"Yes, but I think we should be there in case anything crops up. They might need backup."

"We don't want to telegraph our presence."

"It would only be Tariq and myself. Very discreet. Like Havensworth."

Harry gave her a levelling eye. If there was anything he didn't want to recreate, it was the fiasco of Havensworth. Operationally and personally. "We know how that turned out. The assassination of a foreign head of state."

"But that was-" Ruth shook her head, refusing to be distracted by the fallout of a past operation. "We have nothing set up. The whole operation seems rather hastily put together."

"I thought you did a very thorough job with the briefing."

"Really?" she asked dryly. "You gave the impression that you weren't listening."

"I heard every word."

"You seemed preoccupied."

"Merely thinking about the talks."

Ruth drew her lips into a thin line. She didn't believe him. If he let her continue on with this line of questioning she might ferret out the details of his plan.

"I don't understand why you won't even consider my suggestion," she argued.

"You know as well as anyone that when these talks are built up it only puts inordinate pressure on the parties involved. We have to keep this under the radar."

"Yes, you're very good at keeping things under the radar."

Harry paused. Perhaps she hadn't taken his recommendations for more counselling sessions as well as he initially thought.

"I have to get going." Harry reached for his coat. "Levi will be arriving soon."

"At least let me be on site."

"No, it's not necessary."

"The President of the United States is going to be there."

"I said no!"

Staccato and sharp, his words halted the conversation. Ruth stepped back from him. His tone had been harsher than necessary, the result of a million frustrations left unvoiced. He instantly regretted it but had no time to consider the feelings of his Analyst. He gave an angry jerk to the collar of his coat and set to searching for his gloves. Seeing that the conversation was over, Ruth turned on her heel and left. Good. Harry took a deep breath. He donned his gloves and strode across the Grid. He could feel her eyes following him. He would not stop at her station or deliver a few words that might smooth over the situation. It was the first step in separation.

.

The heavy gold brocade blocked the view of the outside world. Harry shifted the curtain to one side, staring out at the grey blanket of dusk. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers, wondering at the cost of such rich material. In his other hand, he cradled a scotch, absently resting the tumbler on the arm of his chair. It was a good chair; well padded, firm but suitably yielding in all the right spots. He wouldn't mind one just like it for his living room. But that was the appeal of a hotel room, a state of luxury that was never quite realised in one's own home. If the room were ever to come under the scrutiny of an audit, it might be deemed an extravagance, but Harry would argue it was an operational necessity. He had needed a retreat. If he had circled around the talks like a lonely satellite it would have only invited suspicion. It was paramount that everything stay under the radar. Even with stringent precautions, the talks had failed. It was not his fault, nor that of his team. They had taken immediate action when alerted of the threats and moved quickly neutralised them both. One a red herring the other more jarringly personal.

A bottle sat on the table beside him, and Harry poured himself another measure. The scotch had been a gift from Levi. The man had entered the talks with such hope, as one should, for why embark on negotiations if there was no hope. Harry had humoured his friend, had almost been infected by the man's optimism. It had been foolish to think these talks would be different from any other. Of course, no one would ever suspect that the reason for failure would come from within one's own camp. He could not fathom the hatred that must flow through Anna Cohen's veins that she would flood her body with a chemical explosive in order to thwart her father's mission. That took a rare kind of nerve; admirable as it was incomprehensible. Harry prayed that his relationship with his daughter would never descend to such a level.

He looked around the room. He couldn't help but wonder if the talks would have ended differently had they used the room as an operational hub. The presence of an onsite comms team may have prevented the sharpshooter from kidnapping Beth, another set of eyes may have caught Anna's plan to use her body as a weapon. Ruth, he was certain, would waste no time in pointing out these overlooked benefits. Well, she didn't know everything. Harry smiled, congratulating himself on maintaining the secrecy of the room. She had no idea.

After the operation at the hotel had ended, Harry had returned to the Grid. He had managed to avoid any interaction with his Analyst, doing his best to stick to his plan. The events of the day lingered, haunting him, and he had found it difficult to concentrate. After what he thought was an appropriate amount of time, he had left. No goodbyes, no parting words, only the soft swish of the pod doors to indicate his departure. The talks may have ended but his little sanctuary remained. He had given himself permission to return, thinking that he might find some form of comfort in the refuge of the hotel room. Plush carpet, mellow lighting, an oversized bed, it was a space that invited relaxation. The problem was he could find none.

Outside the window, dusk was giving way to darkness, leaving him suspended between two worlds. Harry took a swig of his scotch and rolled the liquid around in his mouth. He was beset by an unresolved frustration. The shadows of the city called to him, urging him to come out and walk in their midst. A hollowness sat in his chest, and he was sorely tempted to prowl the streets in search of something to fill it. Possessed of a restless energy, he stood up and walked the length of the room. Electricity moved beneath his skin, searching for a way out. He loosened the knot of his tie, but it did not ease the prickling of his skin. He knew what he needed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his mobile. It would be a shame to waste such a well-appointed room. He scrolled through his contacts, searching for a number that had supplied the balm on past lonely nights. An invitation to dinner in the hotel restaurant, a few steps to his room. No words, no strings. The type of encounter enjoyed by two people who checked into a hotel without any luggage. Was it sacrilege to entertain such thoughts when he had born witness to the near loss of Levi's daughter? Undoubtedly, but the answer did not stop the frustrated pacing of his feet as he circled the room.

Harry's hand returned to the curtain. His fingers curled around the edge of the fabric. Thick enough to keep the night out and secrets in. He tugged the curtain across the window, shutting out the darkness.

Harry sighed.

A menu sat on the little side table. He picked it up and idly scanned the fare available from room service. If he could not satiate one appetite, he would feed another.

A rap sounded on the door. Harry froze, menu in hand, his heart beating rapidly. Who could it be? No one knew his location. He had not even informed Lucas. It was late in the evening, there were no open protocols. His phone was on, someone would have called him if there was an incident. His thoughts turned to the possibility of a Mossad agent, gone rogue, hunting him down in some sort of black flag operation. The knock sounded again, more insistent. Assassins don't knock. Laying the menu down, Harry cautiously crossed to the door, ready to meet his fate. He squinted through the peephole. It was not a foreign agent. His hand rested on the door handle as he debated the wisdom of receiving his visitor. He had never been one to back down. He opened the door.

"I found you."

Harry tilted his head. "Was I lost?"

Ruth stood before him, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as if she had taken the stairs rather than the lift. He commended her tradecraft; a better route if one wanted to avoid detection. She swayed slightly and cast a furtive glance down the hall. She looked back at him expectantly.

"May I come in?"

"Is there something wrong?"

She shook her head. Harry crossed his arms and leaned against the door jamb. She frowned at his lack of welcome. What had she expected? Open arms? The gods were surely mocking him, sentencing him to relive in detail every frustrating moment of his life. He had stood with her in a hotel corridor, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath, wanting nothing more than to have her come into his hotel room. She had walked away from him then, she would walk away from him again. The woman had the uncanny skill of always upending his expectations. He regarded her with suspicion.

"How did you find me?"

"I'm an Analyst. It's my job to know things."

Harry narrowed his eyes. How long had she known? He replayed their conversation from earlier in his office, wondering if she had known at that point. "You could have phoned."

She ignored his observation. "Can I come in?"

Perhaps it would have been better if he had opened the door to an assassin. Two scenarios sprang to mind, a merging of fantasy and reality. She would step over the threshold, brush against him, leaving her scent to invade his nostrils. She would stand temptingly close to the bed, her voice low and inviting and at the exact moment he let down his guard, she would disappear, like a dream. He would be left empty and twice as frustrated, spinning his wheels in a hotel room. Any hope of relaxation or sorting through the mess of his mind, gone. A strange anger stirred within him, irked that she had discovered his little refuge. He swallowed it down. Obviously, she was there on business of such sensitivity it could not be relayed through a mobile.

"Harry," she prompted. "I can't stay out in the hall."

Ruth was right. Who knew what eyes were watching the tableau that they presented; it was perfect fodder for blackmail. Against his better judgement, Harry opened the door wider and motioned her in. She took a few steps into the room and assessed the suite.

"Very elegant."

"It was all they had."

Ruth raised her eyebrow. "A wise use of the public purse?"

"They need never know."

Unsure of where to settle, Ruth gravitated toward the most familiar object in the room, a small maple coloured desk. "There is something about the impermanence of hotel rooms." She drew her finger over the fake wood veneer. "Like it's part of a different world. Not quite real."

Harry crossed back to his chair and sat down, picking up his glass of scotch. He made no motion to invite her to sit, offered her no refreshment. She could do as she pleased. She could take the seat opposite him or remain standing. He only wished she would get on with her message.

"Are you here about Levi?" he asked. "Has something happened at the hospital?"

Ruth shook her head. She glanced at the seat beside Harry but chose instead to lean back against the desk. "I'm sorry about Levi. About his daughter."

"Yes, I've been trying to fathom why she would do such a thing."

"Control, I suppose. The only thing she had dominion over was herself."

"Another daughter sacrificed." Harry filled up his tumbler. "I told him that one day she would understand that what he did was right at the time."

He kept his eye trained on Ruth, wondering if she would take up his thoughts. She shifted against the desk, not meeting his eyes, playing with the collar of her coat.

"Do you find it a bit warm in here?" she asked.

"Not particularly." He looked at her over the rim of his glass. "You could always take off your coat."

Ruth straightened up and pulled her coat closer about her. Stubborn woman. She would never listen to him, even for her own good. As he studied her, he wondered why she was so reticent about her reason for tracking him down. The imp of madness, stirring within him, latched onto one motivation, but alas, she was not that kind of woman. The arena of hotel room trysts was his particular domain, not hers. Annoyed at her reluctance, he couldn't help but be terse.

"What is it then?"

"You should have told me you had booked a room."

"Why?" He bristled at her assertion. He was Head of Section. He did not need to run his decisions past his Analyst.

"We need to know where you are. I need to know."

"That's what phones are for."

"Yes, but there were a number of concurrent crises, Lucas was off the Grid…"

"Did you come here to scold me for playing truant?"

"No, I-"

"I was in communication with the Grid at all times."

Ruth looked away from him, rocking slightly. Earlier in the day, he had told her to flip to the last chapter, he wanted her to do so again. He held his tongue, knowing she would speak in her own time. His silence was rewarded.

"Today, I told a journalist to kill her story. I persuaded her to do it by saying that sometimes things need to happen in private in order to survive."

"You mean the talks."

"I mean…" Ruth looked down at her hands and studied her intertwined fingers. "Oh Harry," she sighed heavily. "I don't know how to do this."

"What?"

"Us."

"There is no us, remember?"

He had jumped through a thousand and one hoops. He would not make it easy for her.

Ruth inhaled deeply and looked at him. " I thought maybe if we had a moment of privacy on neutral ground, where there was an atmosphere of negotiation..."

"We could figure out a path to peace?"

"Something like that."

"Are we at war, Ruth?"

"Perhaps...I don't know. Of late, you've been increasingly curt with me, you don't listen to my advice. I think some trust might be lost."

"Because I didn't tell you about the room?" Harry waved his hand over the space. She nodded in confirmation. Harry considered her words. "If two countries who have been negotiating for decades can't reach an agreement…" Harry turned his palms upward. "What chance have we?"

"Yes, but these talks did start out with a cautious optimism."

"And are you optimistic, Ruth? About the outcome?"

"Perhaps we could reach a compromise."

Harry grimaced at the word. "The talks failed, Ruth. There is no peace."

His words serve to dim her spark. Whatever optimism she held appeared to falter. Her shoulders sank.

Harry looked down at his drink. He saw no reason to engage in the conversation. It would never lead to what he ultimately wanted. As far as he was concerned, it was taking a step backwards. He ruefully smiled at his glass. What he wouldn't give to go back, return to those halcyon days when they were wrapped in their little bubble of attraction, neither wanting to act on it for fear of bursting it. All the heady potential that had surrounded them. No, better to go back to when she first arrived on the Grid, before any such attraction had arisen, when he thought her a mole. In those days his head had been squarely attached. He had not wasted hours lost in fantasy. Now, she inhabited every corner of his thoughts. He longed for the days when he had lorded over her, made her tremble at his words, and subtly tormented her. He poured some more whiskey into his glass.

"Why did you really come here, Ruth?

"I thought you might be avoiding me."

"You think I booked a hotel room in the middle of a highly sensitive operation so I could avoid you?" His voice gave nothing away. He had always been a cool liar. "There are other reasons to book a hotel room. Why else would I be here when the operation has finished?

He took a sip of whiskey, holding her gaze, daring her to acknowledge his allusion. As if on cue, his phone buzzed, vibrating against the top of the table. Harry picked it up and glanced at the number. Long enough to imbue it with a certain meaning. He placed the phone back down. Ruth looked at the phone on the table.

"Do you need to answer that?"

"Eventually."

She squirmed, working up the courage to ask the question. "Are you expecting someone?" Her voice was unnaturally high.

Harry kept his face impassive, giving her no answer. Let her think that he was waiting for a paramour, that someone else was willing to step into the spot that she had left vacant in his heart. He knew there was no nobility in manipulating her thinking, but it gave him a tiny thrill, a slight taste of the power he had once held.

"Maybe I should go," she quietly suggested.

"Maybe you should," he agreed.

He rose from his chair, goading her to test him to see if he was bluffing. It didn't matter, the little game was over. He had already known that she would leave. Ruth pushed herself away from the desk and stepped toward the door. Harry followed behind, ready to usher her out. He let out a breath of resignation, annoyed that he had correctly predicted the outcome. At the sound of his sigh, Ruth stopped and turned around. Harry continued and stumbled into her. They brushed up against each other, arms touching, feet tangling. Keeping her head down, Ruth murmured a few words. An apology, he thought. Neither of them moved. The edge of a knife separated them. He needed to put some distance between them or his plan would be for nought. He remained rooted to his spot.

Prove me wrong, he silently intoned.

Ruth kept her gaze lowered, her hair half falling over her cheek. Her chest rose, a small hiccup of breath arrested, trapping some undefined emotion. Harry chastised himself for playing games with this wounded woman. He drew a deep breath of recrimination. He instantly regretted the inhalation for in that moment the scenario he envisioned unfolded. The scent of her, made potent by the closeness of the room, rose to him. He could feel the warmth of her cheek, a host of memories blossoming, the taste of the tender flesh at the crook of her throat, the feel of her skin. The electricity that had hummed beneath his skin earlier returned tenfold, ignited by her proximity. His carefully woven plan threatened to unravel before his eyes. His fingers flexed, searching for self-discipline. He was lost. God help him. He spoke, his voice low, lest the moment vanish.

"You were right. I did come here to get away from you. But it seems that I can't."

Her head snapped up and she looked at him, eyes wide, hurt by his admission. She stepped back, but his arm shot up, circling her waist, stopping her retreat. Fingers splayed across her back, he searched for the string that bound them together. It was intangible, he would never find it, only be bound by it.

"And if I were to be truthful," he continued, "I don't want to be away from you."

Ruth's hand rose to his chest, the flat of her palm coming to rest over the spot where his heartbeat. He braced himself, ready to be pushed away, but she made no such move.

"I don't know what happened. You were only gone a day and I was lost." One finger traced the design of his loosened tie. "Sometimes, I fear that I'll be swept away on a sea of memory." Her fingers wound around his tie, tugging it slightly as if it were her mooring. "You're all that I have, in the here and now."

He stepped in, she stumbled back. He took another step and she came up against the desk. There was nowhere to go. He had cornered her, though he was the one ensnared. Why did this woman have such a hold over him?

"There's no one coming here tonight," he confessed. "There's no one but you."

His cheek glanced across her temple, lips brushing her hair. If there was a time to stop, it would be now, claim it as their moment of peace, shake hands and walk away. Were they to do that, there would be so much left on the table. It was not his nature to settle for less. His lips moved down to her cheek, his mouth near her ear.

"Take off your coat, Ruth."

A command laced with desire. If she consented, it would be permission to continue. He gave her a sliver of space to carry out his request. She opened the collar of her coat, her fingers shaking as she undid the buttons. She wriggled her shoulders in order to extract her arms from the garment. It fell to the floor with a thud of finality. His hand moved to caress her throat, thumb trailing the delicate chain that lay at her collarbone. The charade that he had maintained at the briefing fell away, the observations that he had locked away in his subconscious, surfacing. He slid his hand under the collar of her shirt, pulling her closer to him. He teasingly brushed his lips across hers, testing. She returned his kiss softly, holding the same uncertainty. One of them would have to take the lead. He took more, tiny samplings, each kiss growing bolder. As he tasted her lips, hesitancy gave way to hunger. He pulled her closer, his body pressing into her, a small moan from her fueled the increasing tempo of his breath. Bumping together, his hard chest crushing against her softness, he held her tighter. His tongue flicked along her lips, prying open her mouth, sinking into her. His hand dropped to her thigh, the material of her skirt bunched between his fingers, Oh, this unanticipated heaven. He tried to keep a measure on his lust. There was always the tipping point, the place on the scale where the weight of reason gave into the force of passion. That point was dangerously close.

Do it. Get her out of your system.

He could clear his mind, concentrate on his job, and finally sleep at night. He pulled back, struck by the thought that she might be of the same mind. Did it matter? If she wanted to use him, so be it. Using his upper leg as leverage, he placed his hand on her hip and shifted her onto the desk. A move she seemed to support as she stood on her tiptoes to help facilitate. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, pulling him closer. His hand slipped under her skirt, fingers tugging at the fabric of her tights. The netting refused to cooperate. He hated the things. His mind gave over to instinct. There was no plan, no commitment. They were barrelling down a path without direction. He didn't care. He pulled her to the edge of the desk, standing between her legs. Her voice broke through the fog of lust.

"Harry," she whispered.

He pulled back panting, He leaned his forehead against hers.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked hoarsely.

Concern on her face, she looked up at him. "I'm not doing anything."

"Why did you come here?" He wanted to hear the words.

"Why did you book the room?" she countered breathlessly.

They looked at each other, searching, each wanting the other to reveal their motives. Had he booked the room knowing she would come? Had she come looking for something more? Ragged breathing filled the silence, overtaking the space. Their questions were left unanswered, neither of them wanting to admit what possibly lay in their subconscious minds. In lieu of conversations, his lips gravitated back hers. Her hands moved around his waist, and she tugged at the shirt from his waistband. Her cold hand traced across the warm flesh of his sides. He took it as an encouraging sign.

He moaned into her mouth. They were in a hotel room, why was he using the desk? With a strength that he didn't know he possessed, he half lifted her, half stumbled with her weight. Through a combination of momentum and gravity, he carried her over to the bed. He unceremoniously dropped her onto the waiting counterpane, his arms tangled around her, the weight of her body pulling him along and he fell on top of her. They rolled over the richly woven bedspread, made of the same material as the curtains. Thick enough to keep the world out and secrets in. His lips returned to hers and they started over again, as they alway did.

They still wore the trappings of the outside world. Impeded by buttons and clasps they grew frustrated. He tried unsuccessfully to toe-off his shoe. She tried to find the zipper of her boot. Reluctantly, they gave into practicalities, and Harry released his hold on her. He sat up, and she moved to the edge of the bed beside him. She wriggled out of her tights, rolling one leg slowly down over her calf. He watched with fascination.

"If this is your roadmap to peace, I wholly support it."

She turned to him, hair tangled by the musings of his fingers, a soft smile of indulgence on her lips. "I don't know if we should be doing this…"

Belatedly he realised that he may have opened up the door to conversation, which was not his intention at all. He brought his hand to her jaw, his thumb running over the contour of her cheek. Her hand rose to his face and traced his chin. She may have continued to speak, but her words did not penetrate his brain. Somehow, at some point, the buttons of her blouse had come undone. The fabric lay open exposing a tantalising glimpse of flesh peeking from beneath the dark lace of her bra. The shade of night pleased him. Not only had she chosen to wear black on the outside; it had permeated her intimate apparel. He dropped his hand and followed the strap of her bra with his finger, travelling from her shoulder down to the swell of her breast. He let it rest on the centre of her chest; the heart of a spook. He held a part of her as she would always hold a part of him. Talk was superfluous. Harry's hand gravitated down to the fullness of her breasts and for some reason, any talk of a way forward vanished. His lips parted and he tried to remember his original thought. Something about a map. His fingers journeyed along the edge of the fabric, gracing her skin, so soft, softer than he remembered.

"Harry," she whispered, trying to coax him back to the conversation. But not trying too hard.

He pushed her blouse away and tugged down the cup of her bra. He dipped his head and claimed her breast, his tongue tracing a lazy circle around her nipple. The peak grew hard and he sucked at it as his hand kneaded the flesh. She sighed. Love is smoke made on the fume of sighs. He would turn the smoke to fire. He pushed her back onto the bed, burying his face in her neck. Her skin carried the scent of everything that he craved.

Any attempt at grace was forfeited, his fingers pulling at the remnants of her clothes. She pulled at his shirt, tugged his trousers, haste overcoming them, blocking out the need for deliberation. Neither of them asked if it was right, base need subverting all thought. Naked, they scrambled beneath the pristine sheets. He paused momentarily, hugging her tightly, enjoying the feel of her flesh against him, a sensation he thought destined to only be in his dreams. The length of her body lay open beneath him, her leg between his, her hip sliding against his arousal. He pulled away, looking down at her, assuring himself that she was real. Beautiful eyes stared up at him, her hair splayed across the pillow. So different from the woman who sat behind the desk. A wild child, untamed. And his. Her hands roved over him, moving with the memory of muscle and sinew. Over his back and sides, pulling him in. His fingers dug into her soft flesh, stroking, searching for the remembrance of her, a heat, wet and slick.

Unable to wait any longer, he slid himself inside her, her breath hitching in a spasm of pleasure. His mouth found the spot beneath her ear, sucking at the tender flesh of her throat. His name arose from somewhere deep in her being, warm and inviting, pulling him deeper. He would never last. Did not want to. His plan had proved a poor defense against her. She had barely launched a campaign and he had folded. Somehow, this didn't feel like losing.

His body moved against hers as he pulled her legs around him. He wanted to stay in the trance of their lovemaking, uncaring of the repercussions, unwilling to contemplate the fallout from their passion. Thrusting faster, her moans louder, his panting harder, the walls of the hotel room reserving judgement. Complete abandonment in anonymity. He took all that she had, starved for too long, greedy lest he never have her again. His arms trembled, her body tightening around him, he prayed that she had reached the edge along with him. Her body arched into him, limbs dissolving and he surrendered, releasinghimself into her. Bliss.

They lay on their sides facing each other, legs entangled, hands clasping. His chest heaved from effort, heart swelling with unadulterated emotion for the woman beside him. He ran his finger over her shoulder, her skin still hot, a sheen of perspiration apparent. He had made her skin glow, fanned the ember, brought her to life. He smiled at her, possessively. She lowered her eyes, a self-conscious flush colouring her cheeks.

"I don't usually do this sort of thing."

Harry pursed his lips. He should say the same, but he suspected she knew enough of his past to know the truth. "I'm glad to hear that."

He wanted to ask if she had come to his room in order to seduce him. She could argue he had booked the room knowing her curiosity would lure her to him. She was not a seductress manipulating him. She was only self as she had always been. His was the role of trickster, she wore no such guise, at least not with him.

"You never answered my question," he rubbed his thumb over her fingers.

"What question was that?" She asked coyly.

"Why did you come then?" he asked. He longed to hear that her reasons for tracking him down had been more libidinous in nature than rational.

She shrugged her shoulders.

Kissing her fingers, he teased her; "If you don't tell me, I might think you came here to avoid seeing the psychologist."

Ruth froze. The warmth of their lovemaking instantly evaporated, the heat of the sheets cooling. He looked at her confused.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I have to go." She extracted her limbs from his.

Shit. What had he done? "Ruth, I-"

She moved away refusing to listen. His fingers grasped at her wrist but she slipped from their hold. She slid out from beneath the sheets and scurried out of the bed. He watched the curve of her back as bent over she picked up the trail of her clothes. She headed to the bathroom, lithe as a sprite. He had lost her. Lying back, Harry draped his arm over his face and let out a long sigh. Clumsy man. He cursed his flippant tongue. Bemoaned the fragility that underpinned their moments together. When would he learn? There must be some way to salvage the situation. She returned to the room, having donned her clothes with the same speed that he had disrobed her.

"Please don't go." It bordered on begging. He stopped himself.

"Someone might see me." The excuse was a cover-up. His words had cut her.

"Stay the night."

"Then they will see me in the morning," she countered matter of factly. " Which would be worse."

She sat on the bed and zipped up her boot. Harry reached over and ran a finger over the tiny nubs that made up her spine. She shivered.

"Come back into the bed," he coaxed.

She stood up.

Her black coat lay crumpled on the ground and she crossed to pick it up. She gave it a forceful shake, telegraphing her indignation. That damned coat, the uniform of a spy, armour of the heart. He needed to stop her from putting it on. Harry grabbed his trousers, belt buckle clacking as he slid them on. He picked his shirt up from the floor, hurriedly putting it on but not bothering to do up the buttons. Ruth slipped into her coat, flipping her hair out of the way so she could fix the collar. She snapped the buttons shut. Everything covered up. Harry stopped. She stopped. Eerily back to where they had been a short time before. She looked around the room and gave a shaky breath.

"This was lovely," she said wistfully.

He didn't know what to say to that. Was that it? A brief encounter in a hotel room?

Ruth turned away and walked toward the door. In two strides, he reached it at the same time. She opened the door but he placed the flat of his hand on the panel and forced it shut. She did not turn around. His breath came in short bursts as he stood behind her, contemplating what he should do. He stepped into her, his chest rubbing against the prickly fabric of her coat. He leaned down to her ear and inhaled her fragrance, savouring it as if it were his last chance at oxygen. She was cloaked in a mixture of them just as he was. Even after she left, he would smell her on his skin. He spoke hoarsely.

"Is there an us outside these walls?"

Her head moved, her profile in sharp relief against the dark wood of the door. Her brow knitted with confusion and pain. His careless comment about her mental wellbeing had struck too close to the bone. She did not speak. No answer - that was telling.

Harry let his hand drop from the door, his arm hanging loosely by his side. She opened the door and slipped out. Harry stared at the wooden panel. What had happened? His body strangely content, his heart and mind yearning for more. Overcome by the feeling that he would never recapture the moment.

Such was the impermanence of a hotel room.


End file.
